
j^-I^ABEL^-jflTd 



MADALINE 



MADALINE 



A POEM. 



sr y 

A. MABEL B. FITCH 



33 




CHICAGO 
HENRY A. SUMNER & COMPANY. 

1881. 



9h 



■^7 



COPYKIGHT, 

A. MABEL B. FITCH. 

1881. 



PRINTED BY DONNELLEY, GASSETTE & LOYD. 
BOUND BY A. J. COX & CO. 



TO 

ME. AND MRS. A. J. BLACKMAN. 

TO YOU, 

My deak Father and Mother, 

WOULD I dedicate MY FIRST LITERARY LABOR. I SINCERELY WISH IT 

WERE MORE WORTHY YOUR ACCEPTANCE; BUT SUCH AS 

IT IS, I TENDER IT WITH MY WARMEST 

AFFECTION. 



PEEFACE. 



My Madaline : I've drawn, as best I might, 
A portrait of thy character ; its faults and all ; 
With truth's own pencil ; making it more true, 
Perhaps, than beautiful : few may admire, 
.And very many, doubtless, will condemn ; 
Yet, I will trust one here and there may see, 
Looking beneath the faulty surface lines, 
A spirit they can understand, and love. 



MADALmE. 



CANTO I. 

In trav'ling o'er some western prairie, where 

The sameness stretches ftir as eye can reach, 

One now and then comes suddenly in sight 

Of lovely, winding valley of a stream ; 

Whose silver waters, here and there, he sees 

Gleaming among the trees which skirt its banks. 

A tiny village nestles closely by ; 

With single store, and church ; — or, if no church. 

The simple building where the people go 

To " meeting," and the children go to school ; — 

And dottimg the space beyond the village, are 

Farm houses on the thrifty farms, from small 

Log cabin, to the more pretentious frame ; 

And then the hills, and prairie land, again. 



10 



MADALINE. 



Lonely, and dreary, are these prairie lands, 
Even when clothed in purple and the gold 
Of regal prairie - queen and golden -rod, — 
Or softened by the mild and hazy light 
Of Indian Summer. Thus, to the traveller 
These cozy valleys real oases seem, 
Where in the grassy desert he may rest. 



A farmer boy, — these words are sweet to me 

And bring a vision of a nature, fresh, 

And pure, as are the crystal springs from which 

He drinks. Yet, I admit it true, 

That there are farmer boys, and farmer boys ; 

And that the vicious ones, more vicious seem. 

Than those who more than equal them in vice. 

But who have learned to gloss their evil deeds, 

Until men vice almost for virtue take. 

In such a valley as I have described, 

And from the little town two miles removed, 

On a small farm, in small home, built of logs, 



MADALINE. 11 



A score of years ago our hero lived. 

You never would have known hnn one, indeed, 

Without the telling. His hands were rough with 

work , 
His clothing coarse, home-made, and often patched, 
And on his feet most clumsy covering. 
Clodhopper, you had doubtless called the boy ; 
Alas ! Men judge us by the clothes we wear ; 
God, sees the soul, and He would tell you, his 
Would shamed nine -tenths of all the souls which 

walk 
Our city streets, wrapped in the latest mode. 
That soul was large, and deep ; yet clear and 

calm 
As were the eyes from out of which it looked ; 
And light, and bright, with lofty, constant 

hope. 
Despondent clouds no more than cast a shade, 
Brief and quick fleeing as the shadows which 
Glide so swiftly o'er the Summer fields. 



12 



MADALINE. 



Many years ago, and in the land 

Which by our Pilgrim Fathers first was tilled, 

Young Zachariah Hamilton had wooed 

And won the maiden with the calm, clear eyes, 

And open brow, she has our hero given. 

And when three birdlings came, whose open mouths 

The father found it difficult to fill, 

He took his little family and moved 

To the more fertile regions of the West ; 

Where were more crumbs and not so many birds. 

And for a time all went as he desired ; 

Until that enemy which ever lurks 

About these new made homes to seize its prey. 

Fastened upon him, infusing in his veins 

Its venom, dread ; whose slow, consuming fire 

At last burned up ambition and his hope. 

Thus, on the faithful wife fell all the care 

And management of their small farm for years. 

This little woman was but weak and slight ; 

Yet, the amount of labor she performed. 



3IADALINE. 



The judgment, and great patience, that she showed. 
The statesmanship profound which she displayed 
In governing her family of boys, 
Were truly marvelous. And now were, fiYQ^ 
Who called her mother. All of them were boys ; 
Who now for six years had been fatherless. 
Our hero was the third, wdio, at the time 
Of which I w^rite, had fifteen summers seen. 

By dint of planning and economy, 
The products of the farm all gathered in, 
And time of rest from farming labor come, 
Each Winter saw these boys at district school. 
Through all the other eight months of the year 
About their home were busy as the bees, — 
The mother with true wdsdom planning all. 
The smallest hands were taught to be of use. 
Both in the garden and the house, — the while 
The older ones were working in the fields ; 
And thus the sum of all their w ork was much. 



14 



MADALINE. 



While none were ever worked beyond their strength. 
True — cheerful labor brings us happiness, — 
You had not found a happier home than this 
Though searching* through the country tar and 
wide. 

And thus had fled the busy years till now, — 
Brief, precious years — by them to be enshrined 
Among most sacred memories of the past ; 
To look upon when tired with the world, — 
And bring, 'mid care and struggle, thoughts of 
rest. 



Bright, manly boys were these five, every one, 
Down to the youngest, now but eight years old ; 
But Horace, the third son, more than the rest. 
Had longing after knowledge of all kinds. 
Acquiring it more readily than they. 
Although thus young, this boy would never rest 
Until he an assertion's why had searched, — 



4 



MADALINE. 15 



And delving first until he found the root, 

Outgrowths required, then, no pains to solve. 

So in the village school it happened oft, 

Young Horace was more capable to teach 

His teachers, than they were to teach him. 

In consequence, the boy for some time past 

Had longed for something more, some real work. 

That w^ould require all his energies ; 

And thirty miles away, a market town 

Boasted an academy for boys — 

And could he but go there — the thought was joy ! 

But then, his mother — he would be leaving her ; 

He, who, when all the others had retired. 

Lingered to see that naught was left undone ; 

Or if, indeed, he could find aught to do, 

To make her coming day's work easier ; 

Who, in the morning, early as the light, 

Was up to build her fire and help her get 

The breakfast, ere the others scarce awaked ; 

He. who, beside his own allotted work. 



16 



MADALINE. 



Found scores of little things to do through love. 

Not that the others, also, did not Avell, 

But he, with finer instinct and forethought, 

Anticipated much that they did not ; 

And could he leave her, then, and go away ? 

He pondered long before he spoke to her. 

But at the last came to her Avith his thought ; 

How, but for leaving her, would not delay 

To set his feet to climb the mountam high — 

And on the side he stood — all trackless, save 

Here and there the footprint of some man. 

Of great and lofty courage, who had dared 

To climb the rugged mount, without a path — 

This Mount of Knowledge, on whose heights was 

space 
For grander living, greater deed and thought. 
And shs, who knew his mind's capacity. 
And had in secret also often wished 
For this son better opportunities. 
Now, when she saw his strength and his desire. 



MADALINE. IT 



01. 



Her faith in him caused her to give assent. 
No thought of her, indeed, must hinder him ! 
Yet, warning him the way was long and rough, 
Sharp thorns grew thick, and ever and anon 
Some rocky barrier, or swollen stream. 
In distance now unseen, would bar his way. 
And then he bent and kissed her, with a smile : 
" Ah, mother, dear ! You know that I can swi 
And surely will not mind the scratch of thorns 
I shall not shrink, from fear to dare and do ; 
But, if the heights are difficult to reach, 
The greater triumph feel in gaining them ! " 
Thus was it settled he should go from her. 



And now my reader asks, from whence will 

come 
The clothes, the books, this boy will surely need ? 
Ah ! had my hero waited but to solve 
From whence should come what, from necessity. 
He knew he should require, had never gone ! 
B 1* 



18 



MADALINE. 



He simply left the will to make the way. 
And now one moment let us look at him 
While lingering on the threshold of the home, 
Absent from which, scarce one day of his life 
Has ever passed. He holds his mother's hands - 
That mother looking on him with her eyes 
Full of great faith and hope and love, and all 
Shining through the glistening tears which came, 
But did not fall. He has just said to her 
That she must never have one fear for him ; 
Although he may work hard, is young 



and 



strong. 



To which she answers : ''I shall have no fear. 
For I can trust you, Horace, and I know 
That if so all be right within yourself, 
All else is surely right by consequence. " 



Wise little woman ! loving, sweet, as wise. 
My heart was sad when, late beside her grave, 
I wondered if on none her mantle fell. 



31 AD ALINE. 19 



No engine's fierce, demoniac shrieks as yet 

Had caused one rural deity to flee 

From that sechided yalley's loveliness ; 

And nymphs of wood and field still held their sway, 

Or one was left in peace to dream they did. 

Not e'en a coach came within miles of them ; 

But Horace sprang with lightness on the load 

Of high-piled sacks of grain ; for this same town 

Was market for the products of the farm. 

An elder brother with him on the load. 

They journeyed all the day, till set of sun, 

Ere they descended from the prairie land 

Into the cleft, between the high, steep blufis 

Which hem the mighty Mississippi in. 

This cleft, a mile in length, the town's main street, 

The foot of which the giant river washed, 

So narrow was, the space on either side 

Was not sufiicient for two rows of homes. 

But one the other crowded back upon 

The hills, precipitous, where they clung. 



20 



MADALINE. 



As, any time might loose their hold and fall. 
This, of the town, was all that you could see, 
Though, truly, being scarce one half of it. 
By carefully exploring, you might find 
There Avas a labyrinth of smaller clefts. 
With houses also clinging to their sides, 
Which were but reached l)y long, steep flights of 
stairs. 



The boy now there — what next does he propose ? 
Can he have come without some well-defined 
Plan of procedure, in his rash, young mind 'I 
Rash it may be ; and yet, methinks it true 
He, who would Avin Success, at first must woo 
Her with determination strong as life. 
To let no obstacle prevent his suit ; 
And this determination Horace had, 
And this was all, save his belief that 'mong 
The many people of this town, were some 
Who, in return for faithful work, would give 



MADALINE 21 



The necessary food by Avhich to live, 

Yet leave him time his studies to pursue. 

But, what means take to find if this were true ? 

Leaving his brother continuing his way 

With the farm-treasures to the market-place, 

For two long hours, he went from door to door, 

And, in that time, he his first lesson conned 

In that distasteful volume, called ''the World." 

This knowledge, still, not half so bitter was 

To Horace, who w^as true philosopher, 

As to a nature keenly sensitive. 

Whose tender sensibilities receive 

From every unkind word, or look, a wound 

Sharp as a dagger-thrust is to the fiesh. 

And yet, our Horace, in his first surprise 

At seeing some door rudely close on him. 

Ere scarce he had his simple question asked ; 

Or saw an amused smile but ill concealed. 

As some at his apparel cast a glance ; 

(His best, well kept and neat, but grown too small, 



22 



MABALINE. 



Making his hands and feet too prominent) 
This boy who wore his coarseness in his clothes 
But kept his soul refined, 'tis true, at first, 
All this felt keenly, and w^ould turn away 
With hot Hushed face, drawing up so straight 
He would have measured taller by an inch. 
He asked no favors, would accept of none. 
And wanted naught for which he could not give 
Its full equivalent. He had but asked 
A civil question, which, of right, demands 
From all, a civil answer in return. 

And on from door to door our hero went. 
The while the gloaming deepened into night, 
Until a lady with a heavenly face 
(So Horace thought) said such a boy as he 
Was just the one they had been looking for. 



We need no longer closely follow him ; 
It is the starting that is difficult ; 



MADALINE. 23 



When horses have a heavy load to draw, 

So they hwi start the wheels, can draw the load, 

With steady effort, even up the hills. 

A boy upright and true will not lack friends. 

And Heaven e'er helps him who helps himself. 

And now is left for us but to observe 

How this young Horace such advancement made 

As to surprise both teachers and his friends ; 

(We prize whatever it costs us pains to get ; 

Thus did this boy apply himself so well 

He with less talent must have won success.) 

And as the years went by and he at length 

Passed on with honors into college life. 

How proud the mother and the brothers grew 

Of Horace's learning and more cultured air ; 

How he, with all his work, still found the time 

To send them little tokens of his love. 

And loving letters filled with all he did ;. 

(O, boys, away from home, write oftener !) 

How, through his teaching, both the younger boys 



24 



3IADALINE. 



Grew tliouglitful of their mother as was he, 
Which made it far less hard to be from her ; 
And grown a man, complete in college lore, 
How he with his first earnings built a home 
Of larger size upon the little farm, 
With all that architect could well devise, 
Of comfort and convenience, for the one 
Whose sweet smiles of approval would alone 
Have fully recompensed for years of toil. 
Grown larger, true, but Ave can plainly see 
The boy we knew, was father of the man ; - 
In noble independence still the same ; 
And with so much of moral dignity. 
He scorns to use your servile policy, 
And having breathed pure country air so long, 
The masks the Avorld puts on Avould smother 

him. 
This self-made Horace we may liken to 
A beautiful and noble forest tree. 
Which has been left to o^row its own true form ; 



MADALINE. 25 



Not pruned to some conventional, stiff shape, 
>But full of its own native strens^tli and orace. 

And now, twelve years from time we saw him first, 

We leave him in the West's metropolis, 

A rising lawyer, of whom people say, 

Seeing his talent and his manly strength : 

"This man may bend the bow and take high aim ; 

The arrow will not fall below the mark." 



MAD A LINE. 27 



CANTO II. 

Around the great Queen City of the West, 

On every side, excepting where is spread 

The vast, bkie waters of Lake Michigan, 

Lie pretty towns and villages, — scattered about her 

Everywhere, like little children that have 

Ventured from their mother's side, and yet 

Are careful that they keep her well in sight. 

Of all these lovely towns not one can boast 
More charming site than that of fair Bellevue. 
The land here lies some fifty feet, or more, 
Above the level of the lake. Ravines. 
Deep, picturesque, and beautiful. 
With nature's primal wildness on them still. 
Divide such perfect building sites as leave 



28 



MABALINE. 



Small room for art ; while all are set in groves 
Of fine old forest trees, where you may leave 
All hmiian life behind, and wander there, 
Alone with Nature, — and with Nature's God. 



In ample grounds, whose gently falling slope 
Abruptly ends in seven terraces, which lead 
Down to the waters edge, of rough hewn stone. 
With towers rising castle - like, and grand, 
Among, and against a background of dark 

trees. 
Stood the fine country seat of Judge LeKue. 
It looked to one a very paradise. 
Reposing sweetly in the softened light 
Of this fair Autumn day of which I write ; 
'Twas one of those most lovely, perfect days, 
Which only fair October e'er can boast ; 
A day for dreams ; soft, beautiful and bland ; 
And lightly Avrapped in haze, all things asleep, 
As though they swooned, in very ecstacy. 



MADALINE. 29 



Royal October ! Her sisters of the Spring, 
Sweet, fresh young things, 't would not be hard to 

love, 
Are, ne'ertheless, a trifle immature, 
While those of Summer, radiant, dazzling all. 
Do, by their very brightness, weary one. 
Not so, this perfect month ; although arrayed 
In the most tender, gorgeous loveliness, 
Yet, artful beauty that she is, has learned ' 
That greatest beauty is that half concealed : 
So, over all, has drawn a hazy veil. 

After a long day's labor in the midst 
Of a large city's turmoil, noise and heat. 
What deep relief comes to one's weary mind, 
When, on the rushing train, is left behind, 
Not only all the city's din, but more. 
Care, locked safe in, behind the office door, 
And what pure pleasure feels when soon he sees 
His home appear in sight among the trees, 



30 



MADALINE. 



And hastens with light heart to rephice care 
With the society of loved ones there 

Thus on this Autumn day did Judge LeRue, 
Light-hearted, leave the train to hasten home ; 
With him, a guest ; a man, whom, at the first, 
You felt to be of nature's noblemen ; 
Whom any might be proud to call their friend. 
Though still was young, deep thought sat on his 

brow. 
And in his countenance you saw that he 
Had deeply drank of life's experience. 
My reader, look more closely at this man. 
Is there about him naught you recognize i 
Yon need but look into the clear, calm eyes. 
In which you see revealed his nature's depths. 
To know that this is Horace Hamilton. 

Their hearts and thoughts in sweet accord, with all 
The loveliness about them, these two men 



MAD ALINE. 31 



Entered the spacious grounds of Hendrick Hall. 
The overhanging branches formed for them 
A canopy of crimson and of gold, 
In which the little leaves array themselves 
As if for final triumph, ere they fall. 
And flying down the winding, gravelled walk 
And crying "Papa 's come," two pretty girls. 
The merry little daughters of the Judge, 
Came to meet them — Lola and Estelle. 
One clinging to the hand of each, they thus ap- 
proached 
The stately entrance of this home, where stood, 
Having but just dismounted from her horse. 
One hand upon his neck, her face aglow 
And dark eyes bright with recent exercise. 
The eldest daughter, queenly Madaline, 
The best beloved of all. Her riding dress, 
Of cloth of darkest blue, revealed the grace 
And beautiful proportions of a form 
Which country air and sports had perfected. 



32 



MADALINE. 



This, with a rich complexion, not impaired 
By being from exposure slightly browned, 
A mouth both sweet and loving, with the lips 
Bright with the color perfect health can give, 
Completes the picture of the outward dress 
Of the real self of Madaline LeRue. 



She greeted Horace with a beaming smile. 

Full of the real pleasure that she felt ; 

But far too friendly frank to come from more 

Than loving friendship, that she might have given 

A noble, elder l:)rother, dearly loved. 

And he ? Since the first time he met this girl, 

Ere she had blossomed into womanhood. 

And whose young nature, even then, he felt, 

Held all the elements of tragedy — 

A nature, passionate, yet with a heart 

Almost pathetic in its tenderness — 

Feelings which, by their fine intensity. 

Might give in sinless world exquisite bliss, 



MADALINE. 33 



But, in a world of sin and pain, alas ! 

Would as acutely feel the pain instead, 

Since first he met, felt strangely drawn to her, , 

With a protecting love, as if, indeed, 

He would his stronger arms about her keep. 

And from the dread, black shadows of the 

world 
Direct her gaze above them, to the light. 
And this protecting love, half fatherly, 
Increasing with the years, had now become 
Strong, tfeep and tender, as his own rare soul, 
The beautiful, true love such men can give. 
(The love one gives, be sure, will ever be 
Fashioned in the image of himself. 
And noble, or ignoble, like the man.) 
But both his sense of honor and his pride 
Caused him to keep the secret of his love. 
Till, might as social equal ask her hand. 
And though that time had come, he yet delayed 
To speak of it ; she still was very young. 



34 



MADALINE. 



And, dreading to lose all, could not just yet 
Decide her trusting friendship to disturb. 



But let us look more closely at the life 

And character of Madaline LeRue. 

This character may seem unnatural. 

And was formed, true, of strong, contrasting traits ; 

While, in the truest sense, she ever was 

As queenly in her mind as in her form, 

She wa^ as simple-hearted as a child — 

Almost as wayward and impulsive, too. 

She oft was thoughtful, pensive, even sad ; 

Yet, when she laughed, it was so genuine. 

And came with such directness from the heart. 

It made one merry but to see her mirth. 

She would grieve and tremble at a worm in pain ; 

Yet, in herself, had great strength to endure. 

She was sensitive, and wounded easily ; 

And yet, wdth eyes afire and cheeks aglow, 

Another's right could bravely vindicate, 



MADALINE. 35 



With all the courage of a heroine. 
She had a high, proud spirit ; yet, she bowed 
Humbly and low her head, instinctively, 
When in the presence of the good, or great. 

E'en when a child, she often with her father sat, 
To question him of life, and death, and all 
The grave, perplexing problems wisest men 
Have racked their brains, and all in vain, to solve. 
In lighter moods, it oft was her delight 
To climb upon his knee and hear him tell 
How Anaximines conceived the stars 
Nailed up against the sky for ornament, 
And others, burning stones, celestial fires, 
And even holes cut through the vast blue dome 
For breathing places. And then he would tell 
How ancient nations worshipped many gods. 
And give their names, and tell to her the myths, 
Those wonderful, strange stories of these gods, — - 
Which diflerent minds interpret dilFerent ways ; 



36 



MADALINE. 



As moral attributes, or Nature deified, 
Or confused memories of- other times. 
According to the pattern of themselves. 
(Thus may, in anything, a lovely soul 
Reflect its own exquisite loveliness, 
Investing things with beauty not their own — 
As one sweet writer does ''Old Mother Goose.") 

Her childish mind prepared, it is not strange 

She had a taste for historv, and long^ed 

To read all these things for herself, and thus 

But natural, at nineteen years of age. 

This Madaline possessed a goodly store 

Of knowledge of the nations of the earth ; — 

Their rise and fall, their customs, manners, arts, 

From prehistoric down to modern times. 



Seven years before, Avhen Madaline was twelve 
And Lola was a babe, her mother died ; 



MADALINE. 37 



And since that time an aunt had lived with them. 

To take charge of their home, and be to them 

A second mother ; and so she ever proved, 

Or rather that to Lola and Estelle. 

But Madaline, although she dearly loved, 

Her stronger nature' could not satisfy ; 

So she turned to her father ; thus it was 

The bond of love between them was so strong. 

Thus, too, that in the evening, if he went 

To study or to work, he welcomed her — 

Indeed, would miss her if she did not come, 

As though he lacked a holy presence near ; 

So in the library, which was his study, too, 

She spent much of her time when in the house ; 

So much, in truth, that if one chanced to ask, 

" Where's Madaline? " the likely answer was, 

"She's doubtless in the study with her books." — 

And, truly, ne'er could wisdom's votress wish 

A fairer temple where to minister ; 

The books looked down on her like loving friends, 



38 



MADALINE. 



From cabinets of ebony and gold ; 

And pure white statues, every one of which 

She had invested with a living soul, 

Were company so sweetly still and calm, 

She felt more peaceful for their presence there. 

A window, deep, formed one side of the room ; 

In Summer hung with airy draperies. 

Where one looked out upon the lovely lawn 

And seeming boundless waters of the lake. 

In Winter, the great window and arched doors 

Were draped with heavy damask, crimson lined, 

And a bright and ruddy fire in the grate 

Poured wealth of light and splendor over all ; 

And over Madaline, who sat intent, 

With just a slight contraction on her brow, 

Upon some heavy book, which would be deemed 

More fitting to her father's age than hers ; 

For rarely are Minerva's votaries 

Both young and fair ; and, indeed, Madaline 

Loved truly many things beside her books : 



MADALINE. 39 



She loved her father dearly, as we've said, 
Her sisters dearly, and half motherly. 
And all her friends with deep devotedness. 
Even the animals about the place 
Down to the little kittens in the barn 
Attested she loved them, by loving hen — 
And,— Heaven help you, Horace,— there is one, 
Since last you came, Avhose step doth make her 

heart 
Beat faster, and a brighter color steal 
Soft o'er her face, and deepen in her lips, 
And fills her eyes with mystic tenderness. 
Ah ! these are signs of love ! that love divine 
(Divine, though some debase it down to Hell,) 
Which raises us in nature to the gods ! 
Where, for a time, we do partake with them 
Of nectar and ambrosia, heavenly food. 
Which, if man were allowed to freely eat. 
Might make him, too, a god. Not so, alas ! 
Psyche must wander long, and much endure 



40 



MABALINE. 



And overcome, before she can be thought 
Worthy to be immortal bride of Love. 
But oh, that Psyche ever should mistake 
Such common men for Cupid's divine self ! 
But so it is ; we from our higher selves 
Do ever form our heroes and our gods ; 
And when young, ardent souls awake to love. 
Little matters it by whom awaked ; 
Enveloped in their own heart's overflow. 
They will one's very faults as virtues see, 
As surely as Titania, when her eyes 
Were blinded by the arts of Oberon. 



Yet, Madaline's cultured lover, Edward Vaughn, 

Was one whom all the world called suitable ; 

An only son, whose family could boast 

Their ancestry, their prestige and their wealth. 

He had been educated with great care, 

Was a lover of the Arts, had travelled much. 

On every subject could converse Avith ease, 



MABALINE. 



41 



In brief — aesthetic, polished and refined ; 

An elegant dilletante^ but no more, — 

He had no high, no universal grasp, 

But rather was like architecture, where 

We look for grand effect, but, with regret. 

Find it all lost in infinite details. 

The cloth of gossamer is beautiful, 

And made of silk ; but then, you know, for 

wear, 
We'd choose a heavier fabric, taking one 
In which the threads had been less finely spun ; 
E'en silk, if drawn too fine, will lose in strength. 
And Madaline w^as the stronger of the two : 
Doubtless, in part, because her father's mind — 
A mind that was far-reaching, broad and deep — 
Had influenced hers ; and, partly, that she was 
True child of nature, and from nature's breast 
Had drawn divine, life-giving nutriment. 
And then, again, she had been left to choose 
The studies she preferred ; and, guided by 



42 



MADALINE. 



An instinct sure, had chosen mental food 
The best adapted to her growth of mind. 



Oh, guardians of children, have a care ! 

Put not their minds in beds Procrustean ! 

Like that most cruel tyrant, who, 't is said. 

Had two beds made of iron, one large, one small, 

And all* tall men, who came within his reach. 

Compelled to lie upon the smaller couch. 

Cutting off their limbs, to make them fit. 

While on the larger one, small men would put, 

And cruelly stretch their bodies to its length. 

So do most parents use their children's minds. 

Becoming tyrants through their ignorance. 

If one be born a poet, his friends will, 

Nine cases out of ten, tell him he is 

Weak-minded, sentimental, or a fool — 

In actions, certainly, if not in words — 

Thus cruelly cutting all his fancies olF, 

To make him fit some practical, cramped bed ; 



MADALINE. 43 



While, on the other hand, we Ve known of those 
Who 'd have their children great in Heaven's spite, 
And take a sorn of mediocre mind. 
Who might make first-rate merchant, or a smith, 
And try to stretch him till he reach the length 
Of some one learned profession. We will say 
That they succeed, and he in time becomes — 
Well, fourth-rate lawyer. What then ? Think you. 
In truth, that poor, racked thing will ever be 
As well and strong as though they 'd put him in 
A bed that fitted his capacity ? 



MADALINE. 45 



CANTO- III. 

In wedded life, if happiness be found, 

A man must be superior to his wife, 

In knowledge, not alone, but depth of thought, 

And capable to guide, as to protect. 

A woman is, by nature, womanly. 

And leans instinctively upon some one 

She finds has strength enough to bear her up. 

And, if she find one Avise enough to teach, 

Will sit a loving learner at his feet. 

As Mary did at Christ's. We often find 

Those called strong-minded, not so, really. 

They may be so, in sooth, to weaker minds 

(Quality is by comparison alone) 

And at the very time, may charming seem, 

Either to peers, or their superiors. 




Weeks have passed by since that fair Autumn 

day 
When Horace was a guest at Hendrick Hall ; 
And since that time, alas ! how changed he feels — 
Unlike his former self, as that fair day 
Is to tliis drear December's wintry cold. 



When to the city Horace had returned, 
The image of fair Madaline engraved 
Deeper than e'er before upon his heart. 
He found a letter there awaiting him, 
Apprising him that ill his mother was ; 
And he, in quick alarm, had hastened home 
To find there was no hope that she could live. 
Too weak to often speak, her eyes' soft light 
Yet beamed intelligence and love on him 
During the little time she lingered yet ; 
And, night and day, was Horace by her side. 
As though some opportunity might lose, 
To minister to one so dearly loved. 



MADALINE. 47 



And, when two weeks, from time he came, passed 

by, 

She, o-ivino- this loved son her latest smile, 
So closed her eyes for ever on the world. 

Soon after his dear mother's death, and while 
Wearied and worn with watching and with grief, 
A letter came to him, from Judge LeRue, 
Telling him his daughter Madaline 
Was now betrothed wife of Edward Vaughn, 
And adding : ^' I had sometimes dared to hope 
To your strong arms I might entrust my child ; 
But as young love goes wheresoever it lists. 
Fathers must force themselves to be content." 
And now brave Horace felt the world a blank. 
With not one thing left worth the living for ; 
And for a time, both body weak and mind, 
He seemed to feel the stupor of despair. 
But yet, not long, before his spirit roused. 
And leaving home, which, with his mother gone. 



48 



MABALINE. 



Could never more to him seem home agam 

Returned into the world and to his work. 

And though he now had found the world contained 

So sad a thing as unrequited love, 

(Truly, far sadder than is buried love, 

Where yet we may have leave to plant our flowers 

And water them, as we may list, with tears,) 

No selfish sorrow e'er should blight his life — 

Albeit, might forever sadden it. 

But life was not so long, indeed, that one 

Could not afibrd the pains to live it well. 

E'en though it were not crowned with happiness. 

And far as lay his power, so should the world 

Be made the better for his havino^ lived. 

Yet, Horace e'er must feel for Madaline 

The tenderness now grown a part of life — 

Wife of another, near to him, or far — 

And from his distance still watch over her, 

That so, perchance, the time should ever come 

She needed him, he might be there to help. 



MADALINE. 49 



And she, the one who had unwittingly 
Thus mixed his cup of life with bittermess. 
Meanwhile was dreaming her first dream of 

love ; 
Yet finding it a restless dream, in truth, 
As all dependent, yet aspiring souls 
Will find, who try to lean on lesser strength, 
Thus constantly thrown back on their own hearts. 
An ivy will, instinctive, seek to climb. 
Although it has not strength to rise alone ; 
But, if so be a tree or vv^all be near 
To lean upon, will rise to height of it, 
E'en while it clings to it for its support. 
And this aspiring, clinging INIadaline, 
Most surely was an ivy, meant to rise 
To lofty height ; and planted by the side 
Of some grand castle, or cathedral wall, 
Would twine its grace and beauty over it ; 
But she was young, and did not even know 
Her nature's tendencies, or her own want. 



50 



MADALINE. 



Soon after their betrothal, Maclaline 

And Edward Yaughn were talking by themselves ; 

She, rather, listening to him as he 

Recounted memories of various things 

Beheld while travelling in foreign lands. 

Until his discourse led him, finally. 

To speak of modern, then of ancient Greece. 

From the attentive, yet half dreamy look 

With Avhich she had been listening to him, 

A sudden flame, both radiant and intense. 

Lighted her face and burned in her dark eyes. 

As though she were some youthful prophetess ; 

And she exclaimed, ' ' O, Edward ! I could wish 

That I had lived in those heroic times. 

To have been a Theseus, or a Hercules ! . 

And might have fought like them against the great. 

The monsters horrible, which preyed on man ! 

And, were I not a woman, even now. 

There are Hydra -headed evils which to fight ! " 

She stopped, abashed, for on her lovers face 



MAD ALINE. 51 



Was a displeased look she never saw before, 
Which quickly quenched the enthusiastic flame, 
(Save only in her cheeks) and like some child. 
Before the look her eyes fell timidly. 
And then her lover coldly answered her : 
" Such high flown thoughts are folly, Madaline. 
I know that women think, if they were men, 
They soon would bring the Golden Age again." 
And then he, seeing her so penitent, 
More gently said : "I would not wish my wife. 
Instead of gathering flowers by the way, 
To be forever reaching for the stars." 
But Madaline was grieved. She was a flower 
That could not bear the chilly winds of blame ; 
Indeed, her beautiful, free growth owed much 
To the sunbeams of appreciative love, 
Which she had always in her father found. 
And she was deeply grieved. She had not thought 
This sudden flame, which sprang up from the 
depths 



52 



MADALINE. 



Without her bidding, firing all her soul, 
Could be a thing for censure ; and to have 
It come from one who loved her, and to whom 
She was to look for guidance all her life, 
Perplexed as well as disappointed her. 



Seven weeks ago, with calm and happy hearts, 

Horace and the father of loved Madaline 

Entered the spacious grounds of Hendrick Hall. 

As Judge LeRue now enters them alone. 

The strange, unwonted pallor on his face. 

Must be reflection of December's snow ! 

Not so. For many days, a heavy cloud 

Has threat'ningly been hanging o'er his mind — 

A dark cloud of foreboding and suspense — 

For Panic is abroad in all the land. 

Devouring greedily, without respect 

Of person or of class, alike the poor 

Man's pittance and the substance of the rich ; 

And, on this day, back to his lovely home 



MADALINE. 53 



And loved ones there, returns a ruined man. 
Prosperity's sun will doubtless rise again, 
But only shine for him on shattered hopes. 

Some years before this time of which I write, 

He had been urged by many friends, to act 

As one of the directors of a bank.. 

He had long time been Judge ; was widely 

known, 
And, unlike man}" of our public men, 
The better known, the more was felt to be 
The soul of honor and integrity ; 
And he consented, on the urgent plea 
The people would have confidence in him. 
And swelled the assets Avith his property, 
But to the others left the management ; 
And they seemed men of honor, every one. 
They might have been, and but in judgment 

lacked. 
It might have been nobody's fault at all 



That caused men^s faces suddenly to lilanch, 
While white lips almost shrieked, ''The Bank has 
failed ! " 

Her father had with strength herculean 
Drawn o'er his face the curtain of a smile ; 
But Madaline's tender love was not deceived. 
She saw his pale and haggard face, alarmed. 
And quickly spoke : ' ' Dear father ! what is it ? 
Something has happened you, or you are ill ! " 
"I truly am not well," he but replied, 
"And I need rest and quiet. I will go 
Now to my room, until the dinner - hour. " 
And Madaline kissed him tenderly and urged : 
'' Can I do nothing for you, father, dear ? " 
To which he answered, as he turned away : 
"Nothing at all. I wish to be alone,'' 



When Judge LeRue his daughter left, she felt 
The great oppression of some coming ill ; 



MAD ALINE. 55 



But she must dress for some expected guests, 
And had no time to entertain sad thoughts. 

One, seeing Madaline first time, this night, 

Her toilet so complete in everything — 

From silver comb in her dark hair, worn high, 

To pretty slipper — all, so suiting her, 

Misrht well have thouo^ht she had herself sur- 

passed. 
But Madaline's own rare, instinctive taste 
Prompted her, unerringly, to choose 
Always just that best suited to herself. 
Indeed, in all she did was plainly seen 
Th' exquisite artist-touch ; and it was this. 
Perhaps, as much as her rich beauty, which 
Made her everywhere acknowledged belle. 

The most of her guests knew what she did not. 
Bad news, you know, has wings, and swiftly 
flies ; 



56 



MADALINE. 



And she, a gracious hostess, yet, to-night, 
Surprising, more than once, unusual looks. 
Looks half triumphant or Avholc pitiful, 
Which quickly roused all her defensive pride, 
Carried herself a little haughtily ; 
But they left early, and, with deep relief 
It was that Madaline saw the last depart ; 
And then she stood in the large rooms alone, 
LonMs: to seek her father, and to know 
What trouble dire was preying on his mind, 
Which he refused to let her share with liim. 
She knew the mysterious glances she had seen 
Must somehow have connection with his grief. 
And her suspense was growing terrible. 
For an hour or more, like some caged animal, 
She paced the lengthy parlors up and down, 
All silence, save the rhythmic sound with which 
Her soft dress swept the richly-covered floors ; 
Then, suddenly she raised her head, and went 
Straight to her father's room, and gently tapped. 



MABALINE. 57 



And, in a pleading voice said : '^ Father, dear, 
Please let me in! Oh, please, do let me in ! 
This terrible suspense I can not bear. " 
He opened then the door, without a word. 
And she quick threw her arms about liis neck. 
And said with quivering lips: "You doubt my 

love, 
To think I would not gladly share your grief, 
Whatever it is/' And then he told her all — 
How even their home must be, too, given up. 
He would not save it, if he could ; but all 
Should go, that much as possible might be 
Returned to the depositors of the bank. 
Many of whom, perhaps, but for his name, 
Had never thought of placing money there. 
It was not for himself he had endured 
This agony of mind. It was the thought. 
His children dear, so very dear to him. 
Should be thus brought to sudden poverty. 
Then, Madaline's noble spirit fully roused. 



58 



MADALINE. 



he 



Like Maid of Saragossa in the l^reach, 
She stood heroic, without thought of fear, 
And faced the foe. The brightness to her eyes, 
And color to her cheeks, had all returned. 
Her voice was firm, though tender, when i 

said : 
' ' Dear father, many years ago you said 
My soul Avas yet an undeveloped thing. 
Like baby robin, little else than mouth, 
Wide open always, craving for more food. 
And then you smiled down in my face and said. 
With such an appetite and proper food, 
I ought, in time, to grow a goodly bird — 
A bird with strong and well - developed wings. 
I truly feel full - fledged and strong, to - night ; 
And so, my father, dear, you must not grieve. 
I 'm very sure that I can learn to work ; 
I e'en could sufler all, for your dear sake, 
And in that suffering rejoice ! " And with these 

words 



MADALINE. 59 



She knelt beside the chair in which he sat, 
And taking up his hand in both of hers, 
She pressed it to her lips. With filling eyes. 
In turn he placed the hand upon her head. 
And murmured low : '^God bless you, Madaline.' 



MADALINE. 61 



CANTO IV. 

As in the Suminef all the trees are fair 
When covered by the graces of their leaves, 
And we do not their real outlines see, 
But, when their foliage falls, and bare they stand. 
Their forms sharp - drawn against the wintry sky, 
We find some still are fair, but many more 
Unshapely and with large excrescences. 
So 't is with men. In their prospei'ity, 
The graces of conventional life may hide 
Most grave defects, or characters deformed. 
Which we espy but when misfortune comes 
And leaves their real selves in bold relief. 
Had not misfortune come to Madaline, 
The nearest ne'er had known her character, 
How fair it stood against adversity. 



62 



MADALINE. 



In delicate, 3^et firm, clear tracery. 

Some may complain she 's lost her gentleness, 

And has grown cold and proud ; but you must 

know, 
In Winter branches grow less pliable ; 
For, 't is the law of nature, when the frosts 
That blight and winds that chill have come, the sap 
Of all the plants will hasten to the roots, 
And more unfeeling leave the exposed parts, 
Lest blighting frost and chilling wind should kill. 



Far from the city's heart, and where, indeed, 
The houses seem but hanging by her skirts, 
Behold a row of small white cottages. 
With dreary stretch of prairie land beyond. 
We will invoke the aid of ftiiry's wand. 
And, thus invisible, will enter here 
The new and humble home of the LeRues. 
How bright and cheerful ! What sweet, homelike 
air! 



MADALINE. 63 



One well might fall in love with cottage life. 

A glowing fire burns upon the hearth, 

For, though the Summer's r'eign is scarcely 

O'er, 
E'en now the Winter's breath is sometimes felt. 
As now and then he turns his face our way. 
The fire's glow lights up the pretty room. 
Pretty and bright as any one could wish. 
Though, save the fine piano and guitar, 
There 's not a thing but of the simplest kind. 
But Madaline's taste has made all beautiful. 

But through that open door, who is 't that lies 
So prone and motionless upon his bed ? 
Oh, can it be that this is Judge LeRue ? 
Why should, while useless vessels sail the main. 
This noble craft lie wrecked upon the shore 'i 
Some one bends over him and smooths his hair, 
Adjusts the snowy pillows for his head, 
Draws up the counterpane, lest he be cold, 



Oi 



M^WALINE. 



With tender, loving touch. But now she turns. 
My God ! iind can this be the Madaline 
We knew, less, somewhat, than a year ago I 
Ten yearj5 should not have made such change as 

this, 
So i^ink the eyes, and pale the cheeks, and leave 
That tired, care-worn look upon her face ! 
Dear Madaline ! Who W know you now — so 

changed — 
With half the luster of your eyes washed out 
By frequent tears ? and who will love you now I 
The little girls, now sitting on the floor 
And dressing up their dolls to take them out. 
Are much the same as wdien you saw^ them first — 
Too young to feel the ]:>low, or know the care. 
That changed their father and their sister thus, 
The roses on their cheeks are near as fresh 
As when you saw them in their lovely home. 
They, doubtless, are as happy, though they Ve 

learned, 



MADALINE. 65 



Since the illness of their fother, to speak low 
And to move quietly about the house. 

But where was Madaline's lover all this while ? 

He was away when first he heard their loss, 

But hastened back to urge on Madaline 

His name and home ; and, too, he would be glad 

To help her father in all ways he could ; 

Or both he and the girls could live with them - 

With just a slight reluctance in his tone. 

Which, Madaline, grown doubly sensitive^ 

Resented quickly in her heart, and said 

She knew her fiither ne'er could be obliged 

To any living man for daily bread ; 

And she, his daughter, could not leave him yet. 

So Edward Vaughn was forced to be content, 

Although displeased to see his future bride 

Descend to humble life, refusins^ still, 

Gently, yet firmly, all his proffered aid. 

They would need little, she had said to him ; 



m 



MABALINE. 



Would wtint but comfort, and not luxury, 
And surely from no one they needed help. 
But as time passed, he one day learned that she, 
In music, for some time, had lessons given. 
Which angered him : and when he went again 
To visit her he had upbraided much, 
Saying that if she cared not for herself, 
That, as his promised wife, might think of him. 
He would not have her turn a servant quite, 
To gratify some strange. Quixotic whims I 
Through sorrow, Madaline was growing proud. 
She drew herself up haughtily, and took 
From oft' her finger the engagement ring. 
And handing it to him, said, ''You are free." 



Had Madaline ever truly loved this man, 
That she could break this tie so easily 'i 
No ; I deem not ; for here you can l)ut see 
Her pride was stronger than the love she bore. 
And Madaline 's real love was strong as life 



MADALINE. 67 



And deep as worship is. She 'd older grown 

And keener sighted since the time when she 

Had promised to be the bride of Edward Vaughn. 

Against her Avill, ahiiost unconsciously, 

She oft contrasted Horace with this man, 

Which made the latter seem but frivolous. 

But she was shocked and frightened when she 

found 
That she was growing thus indifferent. 
And tried to force herself to greater love 
By magnifying all his virtues large. 

He, on his side, not understanding her. 
Yet could not help, in some degree, to feel 
Her nature's depth and rarity, and loved 
Her well as he could love, perhaps ; although 
Love to this man was infinitely less 
Than love to Madaline. And so it was 
That when she gave to him the glittering ring, 
He loved her yet too well to give her up ; 



G8 



MADALINE. 



And, speaking to her gently, pressed a kiss 
Upon her forehead white, then on her lips, 
And slipped the ring again upon her hand. 



And not long after this, there came a day 

When Judge LeRiie was brought, insensible, 

Back to his little home and Madaline. 

It was an apoplectic stroke, they said *, 

And for two days and nights, w^fth breaking heart, 

Madaline hung over him ; and then 

He roused, somewhat, from his unconscious state. 

But never was what he had been, again — 

In mind and body, but a feeble child. 



And where, the while, is Horace Hamilton \ 
Is Madaline's sorrow added to his grief ? 
Yes. He had returned in time to see 
His loved friends brought to sudden poverty 
And give to them his noble sympathy. 
No one but him, indeed, did Judge LeRue 



MADALINE. 69 



E'er truly welcome to his humble home ; 

And, by no one but him would Madaline, 

Now proudly sensitive, e'er be advised ; 

And knowing that his presence comfort brought, 

He made his visits frequent, it is true, 

Which Edward Vaughn saw with deep jealousy. 

He saw, too, Madaline revered this man ; 

And this, toward Horace, filled his heart with hate. 

Upon the day that Judge LeRue fell ill, 

They both had hastened to extend their aid ; 

And Madaline, Edward scarcely noticing, 

Had, with white face and clasped, uplifted hands, 

Gone quick to Horace, crying in pleading voice : 

"Oh, Mr. Hamilton ! now you are come. 

Can you not make my father well again ? '' 

A childish question, yet pathetic one, 

Which show^ed how, in her thought, she leaned on 

him. 
And Horace, in the pitying tenderness 
He would have felt for e'en dumb animal 



70 



MADALINE. 



That in distress appealed to him for help, 
(And how much more must feel for Madaline ! ) 
Took both her hands in his without a word, 
And with dimmed eyes looked on her tenderly. 
Then Edward Vaughn stepped forward haughtily, 
White with the jealous anger that he felt. 
And said, while looking sternly on them both : 
"You surely should remember, Madaline, 
I am the one to do wdiat 's possible ! " 



And yet, this Horace, even in a thought, 
Too noble was to e'er wrong EdAvard Vaughn ; 
And if there Avas a living man to whom 
EdAvard might his honor safely trust. 
That man AA^as surely Horace Hamilton ; 
But, for the happiness of Madaline, 
It better AA^as to visit her no more. 
And charging her that should it ever chance 
Her father should arouse and ask for him. 
That she should send for him Avithout delay, 



MADALINE. Yl 



h 



He took bis leave of her, whicli proved to be 
Tbe final sigbt of tbat dear face for years. 
But yet, for many weeks, tbere passed no day 
Tbat Horace did not bear of Judge LeRue, 
Tbrougb tbe pbysician tbat attended bim ; 
And learned, alas ! tbere was but little bope 
Tbe fatber would be different from now, 
Tbougb long in tbis same state niigbt linger yet. 
And bow can words express tbe daughter's grief ? 
Tbougb I intrude on tbat griefs sanctity, 
And tell you bow sbe wrung ber bands, and 

prayed : 
''Ob ! anything but this ! my God ! my God ! 
I can bear anything — yes, anything ! 
So Thou but give my father back to me ! " 
In vain ber cries. Week after week passed on. 
And still her father lay as at the first. 
And scarcely noticed ber, although she bung 
About his couch incessantly, and watched. 
With lessening hope, for bis'recovery. 



72 



MADALINE. 



She had cast herself down, prostrate, as it were, 
In anguished supplication 'fore God's throne ; 
But still He heeded not. What was her pain 
To Him, who sat enthroned so high above ? 
And so she raised herself, and prayed no more. 
But, with a bitter feeling at her heart, 
That God was cruel and unjust, she rose 
And carried her heavy burden without help. 



Of all his sorrow, far the bitterest drop 

That Horace drank — indeed, could ever drink — 

Was knowing Madaline's deep grief, and he 

Deprived of e'en a brother's privilege 

Of giving her the comfort that he might. 

Truly can she never know how oft 

And deep the yearning was, to go to her 

As he might to a child that had been hurt. 

And without help lay moaning in its pain. 

He felt her need, but yet could not intrude. 

It w^as as if the motlier of the child 



MADALTNE. 73 



Stood by, and thus precluded other help, 
While yet the child moaned on, and she 
Incapable, or careless, to relieve. 
And this it was more than all else combined, 
That fretted Horace's strength and life away, 
Till his physician ordered, so he wished 
To see another year, that he should leave 
All business for a time, and go abroad. 

A brave and noble spirit Horace had. 
But strength of body one as truly needs, 
To bear a heavy burden of the heart. 
And nature here had been so overtasked. 
She could not rally without change and rest. 
And putting hy all pride for her he loved. 
He sought an interview Avith Edward Vaughn ; 
To ask was there no thing that he could do 
Either for Judge LeRue or Madaline. 
And coldly Edward Vaughn had answered him 
"The one that in two weeks will be my wife. 



Y4 



MjiDALINE. 



Surely needs not the help of any friend. " 
And Horace left hmi filled with wretchedness ; 
Though had he felt assured that Madaline 
Would with this man find aught of happiness, 
His own grief then he better could have borne. 
But Horace knew her nature well, and felt 
It was impossible, and as he left, 
He groaned in bitterness : ' ' His wife so soon ? " 
And hastened to depart, that he might be 
Not even in her country, on that day ; 
But when upon the/ ocean's mighty breast, 
Where he seemed but a little, helpless child, 
The turbulence of grief was soothed to rest. 
Gazing upon the water's vast expanse, 
Or overarching sky, so filled with worlds. 
His soul was over-awed, and grew resigned. 
Before the greatness of the infinite. 
Why pain and disappointment came to man, 
He could not tell ; but man's Creator knew ; 
And was that not enough ? He w^ould believe 



MADALINE. 75 



That there was lovmg purpose in our pain, 

And to God's care, he surely could entrust 

Even his beloved Madaline. 

And close on this resignnient of himself, 

A beautiful, deep peace stole over him. 

And not unhappy, Horace journeyed far. 

And many countries viewed, and in his mind 

Stored various knowledge for the coming years. 

And when two years had passed, and somewhat 

more. 
One morning he, in far off Switzerland, 
Reading a paper sent him by some friend, 
A poem came upon, signed : "Madaline." 
That name beloved, caused him to quickly read. 
And ere he finished, he exclaimed : " My God ! 
This can be none but Madaline LeRue, 
Rather, that was — now wife of Edward Vaughn — 
Dear Madaline, Heaven help you bear your pain, 
For wretchedness, alone, prompts words like 

these ! " -: 



76 



MADALINE. 



The poem truly seemed a mortal groan ; 
Its cry of anguish pierced his very soul ; 
It was as though the suffering of years, 
Had into these few lines been all condensed ; 
And from behind the simple printed words. 
He saw the intense anguished soul look forth, 
Of her he had so dearly, deeply loved. 
And through long, sleepless nights and heavy days, 
Her suffering image ever filled his heart. 
And when the frosty heralds had appeared, 
Announcing icy Winter's fast approach. 
He sought the milder airs of Italy. ' 
But still that suffering image followed him. 
And on from place to place, in restlessness. 
At length he came one dreary eve, to Kome, 
As listlessly he took in hand the pen 
To place his name upon the register 
It quickly dropped ; for written there, among 
The latest names, was "Edward Vaughn and 
wife." 



MABALINE. 77 



He felt himself grow giddy at the thought, 
That she, so long not absent from his mind. 
Was near to him. 'Twere joy to see her face. 
And yet, O, Heaven ! how could he bear the 

sight ? 
Still, it were better, if but for the hope 
Of finding her less sad than fancy showed. 



MAD ALINE. 79 



CANTO V. 

Fully determined, now, that Madaline 

No longer should refuse to be his wife, 

Edward Vaughn, upon the very day 

That Horace had his native country left. 

Went to her home ; and too, he had some news 

To tell her, which he thought might make her 

glad. . 
His well known name, and wealth, caused him to be 
Named for a seat in Congress in the Fall ; 
And when he told her this, he said to her : 
' ' If my friends work for me but as they should, 
Of my election I am very sure ; 
And will this please you, dearest Madaline ? " 
And in a listless manner she replied : 
" What makes you happy, Edward, will please me. 



80 



3IADALINE. 



But why should much depend upon your friends ? " 

"My simple Madaline, do you not know, 

From President, to pettiest officer, 

All are dependent on their friends ; who must 

Persuade the ignorant their man is best. 

Or buy the votes of the unprincipled. 

Who on their s^lorious ricfht of sufira^e trade, 

As any other merchandize ; their votes 

Being knocked down to the highest bidder ? " 

In Madaline's voice was a slight ring of scorn ; 

Her eyes grew somewhat brighter, as she said : 

" Then, none stand on their merit any more "i 

And so, to be successful, virtue must 

Be mixed with baser metal, as is gold. 

Or silver, which alone, would be too soft ? 

'Tis true, a silver spoon is easy bruised. 

And careless children leave their teeth prints on't ; 

For Avear we'll find the plated is the best ! 

And as the real surely looks as well ! " 

Her lover smiled as thus he answered her : 



MADALINE. 81 



"Yes, what you say is true, my Madaline, 

And that without the slightest irony. 

Of little use is virtue unalloyed. 

Yes ; even children feel there 's softness in 't, 

And take advantage of the. merely good ; 

And so, for self -protection, one must mix 

Alloy of shrewdness and of policy. 

Or, over harder precepts of the world 

But put a shining plate of virtue on." 

She sighed and said : "Oh, Edward, is it so ? 

The world so base ? But life is short, and then 

It may bs God will want to melt us down 

To mould us to another shape ; and He 

Will surely then reject all but the real. 

But tell me not that all have petty souls. 

With nought but little thoughts and smaller aims, 

Without one noble thought or grand desire ! 

Are men all dead i Such creatures are not men — 

With mind and soul all narrowed down to self ? " 

Again he smiled at her great earnestness : 



82 



MADALINE. 



^ ' You are too serious, my dear. We find 

No instinct truer than self-interest. 

We 're too enlightened now to lay great stress 

On abstract principles of right and wrong. 

Our motto now is, ' Each one for himself. ' 

Do lawyers e'er refuse retainer fee 

Because convinced their side has not the right 'i 

Do ministers preach that which they believe, 

Or that which will most please their audience i 

And so, through all professions and all trades. 

The right or Avrong is good or bad to self. 

We take the world but as we find it, dear. 

It would be worse than useless for a man 

To try to stem the current of a stream. 

He can, in wisdom, but float with the tide. 

Would you have all Gils Bias, or Don Quixotes, 

And come to grief by their vagaries, dear 'i '' 

"No," she replied with warmth; "but I would 

have 
Men dare to take firm stand for what is riaht. 



M^WALINE. 83 



And even, if need be, to give their lives 

In lio'htino: for the truth ! I yet will trust 

There must be some who still believe in them ! 

Some yet who will not fear to do the right 

Because the right is in minority ! 

Oh, brave, young Phneton ! I honor thee, 

Who, with such lofty courage, dared to drive 

The fiery coursers of the sun ! Than lead 

A life devoted to base, selfish ends, 

I sooner would be one would rashly dare 

To drive the coursers of some grand reform ! 

Albeit, I overestimate my strength. 

And thus, perchance, might set the world on fire. 

And myself perish in the brave attempt ! 

It can not be all men have fallen so low. 

In Honor's temple they have built a door. 

That they, indeed, may not the trouble have 

To go through Virtue's temple, to get in ! 

Long stand our grand republic ! thus, we cry, 

And gaze, admiring, at the temple built 



84 



MADALINE. 



By godlike men, and builded well and strong ; 

The style of architecture grand and free ; 

Our Pantheon ! dedicated by these men 

To all the deities of Right and Truth, 

Justice and Liberty, and all the rest. 

Then call we the oppressed from every land : 

Come ye, from all the nations ! Enter, here, 

The sacred temple ; worship, and hnd peace ! 

But the statues of these deities you show 

Thrown down and trampled on by dirty feet, 

And mutilated in mere wantonness ! 

And look ! in central prominence, there is 

Whose noble form we \1 take for Liberty ! 

But that pure marble breathed but purity — 

And this is wanton made by garish paints 

And wide - spread, gaudy drapings, and her name 

is License I 
If what you say be so, base men are 
With the keystones of the arches tampering ! 
Alas ! alas ! will no one look to it 



MADALINE. 85 



Till the whole structure topples on our heads ? " 

And Edward, half- contemptuous, then replied : 

''Madaline, such extreme views of right 

And wrong will make you wretched all your life. 

You peccadilloes magnify to crimes. '' 

" Ah, Edward ! there is where the danger lies ! 

Men do the wrong and do not see 't is wrong. 

They look but on the lovely face of vice, 

The beautiful Echidna, whose fair form 

Terminates in the hideous, slimy folds 

Of coiling driigon. They will see nought, alas ! 

Except her beauty, till they feel her sting ! '' 

" Madaline, you have filled .your mind with 

thoughts 
Of the heroic ages of the world. 
Until you lose all sight that nations are 
In childhood, when they make so prominent. 
Rash deeds of bravery, and take extreme. 
Impracticable views. When they have grown 
To mental crreatness, in short, civilized, 



86 



3IADALINE. 



They will in all things take the golden mean. " 
"Oh, Edward !'' quickly answered Madaline, 
''The o-olden mean oft means but selfish ease ! 
When nations reach the height of which you speak, 
Too oft, alas ! their strength is wholly gone ; 
They grow corrupt and die, as Greece, or Rome ! 
It should not be — I think it would not be — 
If, on their beings' high Olympus, there 
Were kept a place still sacred to the gods. 
For 't is their moral strength makes nations great ; 
But soul is left deserted for the mindy 



In her excitement, Madaline had risen, 

And she had paced the floor the while she spoke ; 

Her eyes as bright as old, and cheek, and lip, 

With vivid hectic flush burned bright and warm. 

Her lover was rejoiced to see the change 

Which made her look her former self again. 

And tried to draw her to a close embrace ; 

But she shrank back, as though afraid, and chilled ; 



MADALINE. 87 



It was his right, she knew ; and yet, and yet, 

Her heart had grown so cold ! oh, if he had, 

But once, this night, expressed one lofty thought, 

Or grand or noble feeling, then her heart 

Might have warmed toward him! She longed, 

for some 
Strong spirit's help in this her time of need. 
But here, she found no strength that satisfied. 
Her lover frowned, as thus she shrank from him 
And said : '^ O, Edward ! let me go ! 1 fear — 
I think — my father may be wanting me ! " 
AYith one caress he let her go from him ; 
And when she came again, her step was slow, 
The sparkle on her face already gone. 
And but the listless, tired look again. 
Her lover took l^oth her cold hands and said : 
^'My Madaline, how pale and tired you are ! 
Our wedding you no longer shall put off. 
They say your father may live thus for years, 
And this great care is surely killing you ! 



88 



MADALINE. 



Tour father can l)e with you, same as now, 
But we will have a nurse, and you shall rest.'' 
Thus did he urge, and gently stroked her hair. 
As she, Avith head bowed down, before him stood ; 
And then she raised her sufiering face to his ; 
"O, Edward ! urge no more, it can not ha ! 
Not yet ! not yet ! Oh, give me time ! pc^rhaps, 
I can not tell, I may feel difterent ! 
I have grown hard and cold ; you now, would take 
An icy phantom to your breast, and which 
Would chill the very life blood in your heart ! " 
"The risk is mine, dear Madaline, I know, 
With rest, and one to care for you, you would, 
Ere long, become your former self again." 
"O, leave me, Edward ! leave me to my grief! 
My heart is with my father while he lives, 
And will be buried with him in his grave ! 
Forgive me, and forget me, if you can ! " 
Angry that his persuasions were in vain, 
Edward Yaughn stopped not to weigh his words j 



MABALINE. SI) 



"You are completely blind, to your own good ! 

And now, I wdsh to say, and once for all, 

It shall be now, or never, Madaline ! " 

Perhaps 'twas w^ell he spoke thus hastily ; 

For now, her pride would help her bear the pain, 

Which had been almost torture, as she thought 

She now was giving up her only friend. 

And now that pride gave momentary strength. 

And she, the second time, took off tlie ring 

And laid it by him, saying : "Never, then.'' 

He turned, without a w^ord, and left the house. 

But left the ring still shining where it lay. 

Which she, next day, sealed up and sent to him. 

And thus they weakened suddenly, to find, 

'Twas but a dream, no more, but just a dream. 

By far, 'twere better that these tw^o should part. 
How could one of a self-indulgent soul, 
Who thought the true philosophy of life 
To bask in sunny places, whence he looked. 




Upon the '' struggle for existence,'' Avith, 
Perhaps, some interest, but no sympathy, - 
And saw the weaker perish in the fight, 
With but the feeling, as he sunned himself, 
" 'Tis better so, the fittest Avill survive." — 
How were it possil)le, for such as he, 
To know the deep and tender heart of her, 
Who felt another's pain as if her own, — 
Was champion of all she fancied wronged, — 
And Avho, with instinct of self-sacrifice. 
Had gloried in a martyr's suffering, 
For aught sublime enough for which to die ? 



MADALINE. 01 



CANTO VI. 

Our public schools ! the nation's pride, and hope 1 
Success of which, our land has cause to boast ; 
And yet, ye guardians of the doors, beware ! 
For evils are enforcing entrance there ! 

In a large building, built of dingy brick, 
Where, from the upper Avindows, you behold 
The lake's blue waters, find we our heroine ; 
Surrounded by small children, full three score. 
Who learn from her, first time to hold a pen, 
And say their three times six from memory. 
And is this lowly work ? Not in true sense : 
No work so lowly, but it may be grand, 
By workman great enough to make it so. 
And whereso'er she be, a teacher, may 



92 



3IADALINE. 



Be Heaven's very messenger of light. 
'Tis true that Maclaline had better liked. 
Indeed, for this position had applied, 
To hold Instruction's lamp, and let it shine 
But on her admired heroes of the Past, — 
The heroes great of ancient Greece and Rome - 
For which she felt most truly qualified ; 
But, without friends at court, this could not be, 
And to this humbler place she was assigned ; 
But as it was her nature to do well 
Whatever she undertook to do at all, 
She was surprised to find, as time went by. 
How great became her interest in her work, 
While all the children loved her and she them. 
Yet constantly this interest was chilled. 
And, that it did not die, were marvellous. 
The Principal she found both large and tall. 
Which probably sufficient reason was 
For his assuming a superior air, 
For he inferior was in intellect 



MABALINE. 93 



To more than half of his subordinates, 
Of Avhom the number equalled full a score, 
And over Avhom, than this man exercised, 
Never was there more despotic rule 
To cause our free America to blush ; 
They were the slaves, and he the overseer. 
Who gloried to find cause, however small, 
To bring the heavy lash down on their backs ; 
And that, no more from caring for their work 
Than pleasure felt in showing them his power ; 
Though, truly, for their work he also cared, 
For, from their work, it was, he took his praise. 

Casting responsibility on them, 
He had the time to go from room to room, 
To criticise their work with frown, or sneer. 
Or oft stand at their doors, with scowling glance. 
Like some ferocious, watchful Cerberus, 
To whom, most there had learned to throw a 
cake 



94 



MADALINE. 



Of seeming deference, or flattery ; 

But Madaline, poor thing, had thought that she, 

By doing right because of right, would thus 

Escape this dreaded being s bark and bite ! 

So, with a feverish haste, these teachers worked. 

And many, really, with no higher aim 

Than please this man they did not dare offend. 

For their positions, to most there, meant bread. 

And he the power had, by but a word, 

To turn them, any time, into the street. 

And thus they worked incessant — and for what? 

To teach these children to lead noble lives, 

To be upright and just and true, as well 

As learn to Avrite, to " cipher " and to spell i 

In truth, not so ; these teachers were employed 

To cram the youthful mind with mental food, 

As some do fatten turkeys, or their ducks. 

As if, indeed, in feeding these young minds, 

No different process could be requisite ! 

Mistake most fatal ! Any gardenei' 



MADALINE. 95 



Might tell you that a plant, whose growth is 

forced, 
Will never have the strength, or life, of those 
Which have been given a longer time to grow. 
Instead of this fictitious, hot-house growth, 
Give children time to grow, as nature does ; 
And give them moral sunshine and fresh air ; 
For, if we hope for tender, juicy fruit. 
We must not starve the soul to make the mind, 
And teach youth that the end and aim of life 
Is but to rival their associates 
In their attainments intellectual ! 
Look to it, parents, ere it be too late ; 
For this mode, if pursued in training them, 
May prove their country's ruin and their own. 
The world will grow but a monstrosity. 
The heart's life being sapped to make the head. 
Too large a head oft indicates disease ; 
And have we not, already, cause to fear 
The world's head of to - day is ricketty ? 



96 



MADALINE. 



Alas ! how often do some think that they 

Behold in others real faults, which prove 

To be but the reflection of their own ! 

It is accounted true if any one 

Has any special vice, he is the first 

To accuse some other of the very same, 

Like that poor man who had been drinking much, 

And, when was reeling homeward, loudly cried, 

" Why, every man I meet is surely drunk ! " 

And really thought that it was so, poor man. 

Ah, well ! perhaps this is but natural ; 

We truly are too close to see ourselves ; 

And when we ride upon a railroad train. 

The outside objects move, not surely we ! 



Madaline had l^een three months in school, 
When, on a day, a woman, poorly clad. 
Came with her boy who had suspended been 
For absence, from the room of Madaline. 
But, as the week Avas drawins: to a close. 



MADALINE. ■ " 97 



The Principal would not restore the boy, 
But, on the following week, told him to come. 
And then to Madaline the woman went, 
And, as she wiped her eyes upon her shawl, 
Would Miss LeRue please let him have his seat 
Only till noon ? she then could be at home. 
And Madaline, quickly sorry for the poor, 
And with no thought of possible offense, 
Consented willingly ; but, Ix'fore long 
The Principal came in, espied the boy. 
And, growing white with anger, caught at him 
And by the collar pushed him to the door. 
Poor Madaline endeavored to explain : 
The boy could not be blamed. If fault there was, 
It only was her own. Had she but thought 
He could dis'prove, it never had been done. 
"You only thought,'' he said with wrathful sneer^ 
"That you, indeed, would l)e the Principal ! " 
His rudeness, misconception and his sneer 
Shocked, orieved and made her angry all at once. 




The tears sprang to her eyes, dear little things, 
As 'twere to comfort her ; she forced them back ; 
She could accept no comfort now, she had not time, 
For sixty pairs of eyes were on her face. 
Her work was waiting, she must take it up ; 
And with one quick, convulsive clasp of hands. 
One moment's profound silence, as she thought : 
"My God ! how can this man mistake me thus ! " 
Resumed her work as if naught had occurred. 



Tliere came another day, when Madaline 
Was rudely summoned to the Presence, Avhere 
She found the Principal in wrathful mood. 
Why had she put that boy in lower class 'i 
His mother was displeased ; w^hy Avas it done ? 
And Madaline acquainted him with all ; 
How she had, in the l^ranches that she taught, 
Most carefully examined all her room. 
According to their standing, seating them ; 
This certain boy stood low in scholarship, 



MADALINE. 99 



And for this reason was he graded low ; 

She could not, surely, have done otherwise ! 

He, with his customary sneer, replied : 

" Had you the least discretion in the world. 

You ne'er had lowered this boy from higher class ! 

We can't afford, in fact, to have ill-will 

Of influential people like the Dales ; 

You can restore this boy to his old place." 

Had he but known this Madaline, I think 

He never would have spoken thus to her. 

He had not finished speaking, ere her eyes 

Flashed fiercest scorn from out her pallid face ; 

And in the fierce contempt she felt for him. 

He suddenly assumed a form so small. 

That never more could she feel fear, or dread, 

Or any things but this contempt and scorn. 

Her voice with passion trembled as she spoke : 

"Then, in our public schools, you mean to say, 

The rich and poor shall not have equal rights ? " 

He, rising, with a furious look, replied : 



100 



MADALINE. 



' ' You need not question what I bid you do ; 
Your interest youll find obedience ! " 
Her eyes flashed back defiance as she said : 
' ' I rather, first, my conscience will obey ! 
Obeying which, shall fear not God nor man I " 
He, choked with wrath, went straightway to her 

room. 
And placed the boy again in higher class, 
AVhile, in his heart, he vowed he'd crush the one 
Who had thus boldly dared defy his power. 



Should any think he recognize his coat 
In this, the garment I have made, of cloth 
Woven from the thread of truth, I swear. 
Why, let him put it on ; 'twill keep him w^arm ; 
And, even should it prove a haircloth shift. 
As monks were wont to use in penitence. 
Still, let him put it on ; 'tis not so bad ; 
I might have left truth's edges rougher yet, 
But, taking pity, I have felled the seams. 



MADALINE. LOl 



And, so he wear the garment as he should, 
It may prove to his soul a lasting good. 

Pope, surely, was not wrong Avhen once he said : 
"A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring ; 
There, shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 
Bat drinking largely sobers us again." 
Had this man drank more freely from the spring, 
He 'd ne'er mista'en himself for Jupiter 
And thought his nod as irrevocable ; 
Nor, jealous lest his power be defied, 
Would, on the slightest possible offense, 
Have hurled his most terrific thunderbolts. 
At least, in reading truth and character, 
This man was yet not past the alphabet, 
And still mistook the little p's for q's, 
Because, perchance, they were somewhat alike. 
Those Avho have learned to read a language 
well. 




Stop not to name the letters of a word, 
But with one comprehending gkince can take 
The whole idea of a sentence in. 
And had this man read Madaline as he should, 
He might have found the entire thought was 
good. 

Thus conscious virtue suffers, and because 
Some man is ignorant and can not read. 
Or, with intent malicious, reads it wrong. 



Thus wretched in her work the months passed by, 
While Judge LeRue still lay in living death. 
But slowly growing weaker day by day. 
They had a faithful servant, but the care 
Of both her father and the girls was hers. 
Which, with her work at school — God knows alone 
How heavy was the burden that she bore ; 
And I will leave to Him the man who dared 
It heavier make in wanton cruelty. 



MAD ALINE. 103 



As Spring drew nearer, Madaline was missed — 
Another being in her place for w^eeks ; 
And when she came again, her face was seen 
As cold and rigid as though carved in stone. 
As looking on Death's face had turned her heart. 
And those who have, like her, seen loved ones 

snatched 
From out their lovmg grasp forevermore, 
And know the awful desohition left. 
Can feel for her ; can know how one can move. 
And even work in way mechanical, 
Although she feel as truly dead as he, 
Lying in awful silence of the tomb. 
It seemed so strange to her that one could smile ! 
And with what petty things could be amused ! 
Was she the same who loved the birds and flowers ? 
She, now indiflerent to every thing ? 
But she Avas turned to stone ; but do stones 

ache ? 
And all of her was but one Sfreat, dull ache. 



104 



MADALINE. 



Made just a little heavier at a laugh, 
Or when the children said : ' ' She looks so cross. " 
And so the dreary year drew to its close, 
While since her lather's death she had been left 
Almost in peace. With her, all feeling gone, 
And all the righteous anger she had felt 
Drowned in that overwhelming flood of grief. 
Her persecutor, really think you, then, 
Knowing her sorrow, had forgiven her ? 
Not so, indeed ! Whatever might happen her, 
He 'd ne'er forego, not he, his OAvn revenge ! 
A savage, who may find his victim dead, 
The lifeless body yet may mutilate. 



The morning after all the schools were closed 
And all the children, more like colts let loose. 
Wild with their freedom, had with noisy joy 
Begun already their long holiday, 
Madaline, when looking 'mong the names 
Of re-elected teachers for her own, 



MADALINE. 105 



Espied it writ among the iinassigned, 
Which meant appointment to another school. 
Though not expecting this, yet she was glad. 
All Principals could not be such as he 
Who had made her year's experience so hard ; 
And thus the fact brought sense of real relief. 

With truest wisdom now did Madaline 

So fill the Summer time with various work. 

Sometimes forgot the keenness of her grief. 

Oh, blessed labor ! Lethe spring from which 

We drink, and, for a time at least, forget 

Our own sad hearts ! Who says thou art a curse? 

But two days now ere from the various homes 
Would trickle all the tiny rivulets 
Which make the body vast of human life 
We call a school. Oh, teacliers ! parents, too ! 
Stop you, sometimes, to think how true it is, 
As some one long ago has said, our words, 



106 



MADALINE. 



Our acts, are pebbles dropped in these young 

minds, 
The waves of influence from which will reach 
Through all the future generations till 
They break upon remotest shores of time ? 
For fi^ood, or ill — Oh, teachers — s^ood, or ill ? 



Though but two days remained ere all the schools 

Were opened, Madaline had been as yet 

Assigned no place for the ensuing year. 

Then, to the one on whom the people's choice 

Had lately fallen, and who him had set 

Upon the height to overlook the schools, 

After this long suspense, Avent Madaline. 

As he in office scarce had ta'en his seat, 

It better were for her to go and see ' 

The visiting committee of her school. 

A man appointed because just and good, 

Of the merits of her case he best could judge.. 

(Doubtless he could ; for once a year he came 



MADALINE. 107 



And spent two minutes in each room, almost, 
Or, at the least, glanced in when passing by.) 
And Madaline, with growing sense of wrong, 
Proceeded to the office of this judge. 
Who told her her superior was displeased 
And had, in truth, informed him she had failed. 
Failed utterly in teaching ; was, in truth. 
Impertinent and impudent, and by all means 
She from the ranks of teachers should be dropped. 
For ''discipline must be maintained," you know. 
Therefore, as he suggested, had they done. 
(Teachers are not asked. Will they resign ? 
Without one word of warning, are picked up 
And dropped, without a single thought, or care. 
Whether the fall will break their hearts, or no. 
And may be for no cause save petty spite. 
This is an easy^ if not manly^ way ! ) 
Her eyes grew large with greatness of surprise. 
And Madaline could not help wondering 
If arts Avere used, or greater strength of will, 



108 



MABALINE. 



By her so-called superior, to make 

This man, without his knowing it, his tool. 



Her voice intense, hut calm, she answered him : 
"He knows the reasons he assigns are false. 
And an investigation I demand ! " 
In seemingly indifterent tone, he said : 
"It would be useless, quite. This man stands high 
Among our Principals, and was by some 
E'en named for Superintendent of our schools. 
We can't do otherwise than take his word. " 
Her eyes flashed angrily. She answered him : 
"You ofive the veriest criminal better chance. 
In his case, you would deign to hear both sides ! 
In Justice's name, I say it should not be 
His word should weigh mine down, and that, be- 
cause 
His higher office is put in the scale ! 
'T is cunning, more than merit, now-a-days, 
That helps to fill our public offices, 



MADALINE. 109 



And if, perchiince, it should elect a fool, 

Must we, in spite of reason, call him wise ? 

'T is only simple justice that I ask. 

Had you l)ut sent me to another school 

Where I could fairly have been judged, and then 

Had my work been condemned, I 'd be content ; 

But you admit no evidence, save that 

Of him who vowed he \1 be reveno^ed on me ! " 

He sat unmoved, and Madaline said on more. 
What was her right she would not stoop to beg ; 
But, taking up her heavy wrong, she rose 
And with firm step passed out into the street. 

'' Ah, well ! " she murmured, as she left his door, 
"God help the Right, when good men thus can 

stand 
And tamely put their necks in yoke with wrong ! ^' 



MAD ALINE. Ill 



CANTO VII. 

The Autumn wind is sighing mournfully 
As dying leaves fall one by one to earth. 
Some trees already stand all bare and still — 
Silent and still, save when some gust of wind, 
Convulsive shudders through their branches send, 
As though, indeed, they were convulsed with grief 
As memory turned their thoughts to Summer time, 
When they were happy all the livelong day 
In watching the sweet frolics of their leaves, 
And listening to their voices, soft and low, — 
Now left in sorrow to bend over them 
And drop their icy tears upon their graves. 

From the windows of her room, our Madalino 
Is sadly gazing on the dreary scene. 



112 



MADALINE. 



In humble dwelling, old and weather - stained, 

A stately residence on either side. 

And just across the way the towers and spires, 

Rising from a fashionable church, 

All looking down upon it in contempt, 

Is now the home of Madaline and hers. 

Of three small rooms upon the upper floor, 

This little home consists ; but, happily, 

Two of them turn their faces to the street, 

Allowing those within, when so they choose. 

To watch the tide of life that flows l^eneath. 



Poor Madaline has found it difiicult. 
Even in this humble way, to live 
And find the golden gifts with which to keep 
Relentless cold and hunger from the door. 
She had recourse to her accomplishments. 
Her knowledge of piano and guitar. 
But the musical profession, like the rest. 
Contains so many, they each other crowd ; 



MAD ALINE. 113 



And those who glean in fields professional, 
To be successful gleaners, must, perforce, 
Boldly and rudely push them to the front ; 
In other words, must put on learned airs, 
Impress all with the knowledge they possess, 
So they would hope by them to be employed. 
But Madaline had studied much and deep, 
And would have blushed, assuming to be wise ; 
(" 'T is but the wise that knows himself a fool,"") 
And, otherwise, she was too sensitive. 
Too proud and modest her own praise to sound, 
And less successful was in consequence. 
And she, too, found so many needy ones. 
With whom to share the little that she got, 
And carry as a ])urden on her heart ; 
Some sick or dying woman, or some child 
Whose existence to her neighbors w\as unknown. 
' ' None are so blind as those who vjill not see ! " 
But Madaline saw sorrow every where, 
And when the sight was more than she could bear, 



114 



MAD ALINE. 



And she would turn her eyes to brighter things, 
Imagination still would show to her 
The Avorld's great host of heavy - laden hearts, 
Till she in sorrow sighed: ''Poor world! poor 

world ! 
If my small life could bring to you relief, 



How gladly would I lay it down for you 



\ " 



Upon this cold and drear November day, 

She gazes sadly out upon the street. 

Her white hands clasped before her, and her look 

Both sad and dreamy, as in revery. 

Ladies, richly dressed and daintily, 

It is the morning of a Sabbath day, 

Are passing by and entering the church. 

At length, two, dressed more richly than the most, 

Attract the dreamy look of Madahne ; 

And bitter smile, half scornful, curls her lip 

As she, thus to herself, says musingly : 

''Those ladies were, in happier days, my guests, 



MADALINE. 115 



Well pleased to be invited to my home, 
Who now in rustling silks or velvet clad, 
If with a friend, will pass me on the street, 
Feigning they do not see me ; if alone. 
May condescend to give to me their white - gloved 
Finger - tips, and ask me what I do, 
And where do I now live, with well-feigned interest. 
And with what haughtiness I answer them ! 
Alas ! how true, that suffering makes us proud, 
And not prosperity ! Through suliering one be- 
comes 
But hard and bitter. Even wild crab-apples, 
Though but crab-apples still, are much improved 
By sunshine and good soil ; and so with men. 
T is easy to be good when one is blest. 
While noblest natures, crushed by work and 

care. 
Misunderstood, despised, as poor men are, 
Grow proud as Lucifer, and, in time, perhaps. 
Become as bad, and, fiendish, take delight 



116 



MADALINE. 



In giving pain to others, as if thus 
Would be revenged for their own misery. 

"And now the one who steps across the street 
With such a conscious air of looking Avell, 
The lady is, who, that she might fulfil 
Her Christian duties well (for Mrs. Vane, 
Who lives in regal style, yet visits oft 
The poor,) the trouble took to call on me. 
And gave me good advice, for full an hour, 
Talking of things she did not understand, 
All with the greatest volubility. 



" How fluently most women always talk 
Who have nothing in the world to talk about ! 
Full often, without rudeness, one can not 
Put their small word, not even edgewise, in ; 
And then it so exasperates, to find 
That from the multitude of words to which 
You were compelled so long to listen, 



You can not glean one thought, e'en second - hand. 
Yet talk they smoothly and more prettily 
Than might a person who possessed a mind, 
Who sometimes pauses to await the thought. 

^^And when she gave me opportunity. 

And had advised me well to go to church, 

I doubtless would find consolation there. 

How shocked she looked when thus I answered her 

' Churches are for the rich, and not the poor ; 

Built by the rich, of course belong to them. 

They may invite the poor to come, 't is true, 

And patronize them kindly ; in fact, treat 

Them to a piece of piety, as they. 

Indeed, might treat a beggar child to pie ; 

But surely, no poor, sorrow-laden heart 

Will to these churches for their comfort go. ' 

I said the large cathedrals w^ere the best. 

For there the poor, as rich grief-laden hearts, 

Midit feel when kneelino: on the marble floor. 




No presence there, excepting that of God. 
God pity us ! we went to church to see 
The dress of others, or to show our own, 
Or, it might be for change, or exercise, 
Or hear a sermon intellectual — - 
For any thing, God knew, but worship him ! 



I talked so earnestly I frightened her. 

And then she said to me, half-timidly : 

' I hope, at least, that you are orthodox. ' 

To which I answered that I trusted not. 

And that I could not, for my life, see what 

These churches knew more than the ancients did : 

Chaos was still the father of all things. 

And Still the gods did rule us as they please. 

Not wisely, justly — simply by caprice. 

•We all were still attended by the fates. 

Who, when it pleased them, clipped the thread of 

life ; 
And grim old Charon in his boat, at last 



MADALINE. 119 



Ferried lis all across death's turbid stream. 

How loftily the woman then arose, 

And closer her rich mantle romid her drew, 

As if it were a robe of righteousness 

That might be sullied by one found so vile ! 

Yet, in contempt for her and her advice, 

My words were somewhat stronger than my 

thought, 
And I my doubts, as certainties, expressed. 
For, true, in every church are God-like men ; 
And some rare souls who stand before the world, 
Among the world's great masters may be placed, 
'Fore whom my soul has bowed in reverence, 
And I have longed to worship at their feet. 
Till I remembered then, that though their light 
Might be divine, are human beings still. 
And even might have faults ; so I prefer 
To leave them at such distance that their light, 
Like that of the fixed stars, is all I see ; 
But brightest ray can ne'er reach my dark soul, 



120 



MADALINE. 



For in some cypress swamp, as 't were, am mirecl. 
On every side, as far as eye can reach, 
Nothing but mire. What do they reck to me, 
The light and beauty otherwheres ! The world to 

me 
Is mire ; nothing hut mire ! and over me, 
The sad, dark cypress boughs wail drearily 
As 't were a requiem above my grave. 
My head has been bowed down so long with grief, 
I e'en almost forget there is a heaven. 
With a sun and stars. " Unhappy Madaline — 
Left to grope blindly in the dark, alone. 
With no one near to lead thee to the light. 



And now, she from the window turns away. 
And sighing, says : " I 'm tired ! very tired ! 
And soon, I know my strength, exhausted, fails, 
And I, so weary, would most gladly sleep 
The long, deep sleep of death, e'en if I knew 
That from that sleeping I should never wake. 



But there, O Heaven, are Lola and Estelle ! 
I can not leave them in the world alone." 
She groans in anguish at the very thought. 

Go, look upon Laocoon, and note 

His anguish when the serpent coils were drawn 

So close he saw his utmost power was naught, 

And know the agony of Madaline — 

Such agony as but strong souls can feel 

When conquered by inevitable fate. 

The dreary day to drearier night has turned. 
And Madaline at her window stands again. 
But in the deep, thick blackness seeing naught. 
Indeed, all sight seems into sound submerged. 
As round the house the fierce wind screams and 

howls ; 
She, shuddering, turns away. It truly seems 
A night to powers of darkness given o'er ! 
What is the fiercely raging w^ind, which shrieks 



122 



MADALINE. 



And roars and shakes the windows of her room, 
But fiends, from the infernal region sent 
To mock her wild despair and laugh, ' ' Ha, ha ! 
Where now is all the courage and the strength 
You bravely boasted but three years ago ! 
Ha, ha ! You are a goodly bird, no doubt ! 
With strong and well-developed wings, ha, ha ! 
We soon will give you big black wings, like 

ours ! 
Demoniac fires shall shine in those dimmed eyes. 
And you shall laugh again — oh, yes, you shall — 
A fiendish laugh, like ours. Ha, ha ! ha, ha ! " 



The voices seemed so near she almost shrieked. 
She put both hands before her face, lest she 
Should see the glaring eyes look in on her. 
But this soon grew too horril)le to bear ; 
She rose and made a light, and paced the room 
Until the day appeared, at whose approach 
The phantoms of the night all turned and fled ; 



3IADALINE. 123 



And then you might have seen this Madaline, 

Move slow about the room, with face like death, 

But yet a perfect calmness in her eyes, 

As though some struggle that had lasted long. 

Was with decided purpose ended now ; — 

And Madaline had suffered all she could. 

There is a limit to our suffering, 

And when we reach it, we can feel no more. 

Though sorrow upon sorrow may be poured. 

It is, in sooth, as if we set some cups 

Out in the rain, which may incessant fall. 

And yet these cups can hold but just so much — 

Some more, some less, according to their size. 

Madaline's cup was large, but it was full ; 

And not until the sunshine of some joy 

Evaporate a portion of her grief. 

Can she feel more of sorrow or of pain. 

Let not the natures liHit, who never felt 
A real sorrow in their lives, now raise 



124 



MADALINE. 



Their hands hi \\o\y horror at this girl ; 

But let those judge her who have depth to know 

The anguish of despair of tender hearts. 

Had she not struggled hard for those she loved ? 

Had she not done her work, too, faithfully. 

Till cruel men had shut and barred lier out, 

Unmindful if she perish in the cold i 

Still, there was one thing left to dare and do ; 

With her own hand she would unlock life's door, 

Take both her loved ones with her and depart. 

Whither ? The secret passage from the world, 

'T is true, looked dark ; but it must lead to rest — ■ 

Oh, yes : must lead to rest, she was so tired ! 

And she would go and buy some sleeping draught, 

And at their supper -time would mix it with 

Some fragrant tea, in dainty china cups ; 

And she w ould watch her little sisters drink — 

Those sweet young things whom she had loved so 

well. 
To save from harm she would have givli her life, 



M^iDALINE. 125 



When life was sweet and dear ; and now, through 

love 
To save from harm, will take them where she goes. 
Yes ; she will watch them till they fall asleep — 
The deep, deep sleep, from which they will not 

wake. 
And then, herself will drink the fatal cup. 
And then — and then will leave the rest to God. 

She plans the details all out quietly, 

And when her sisters leave her for their school 

She Starts in search of some life - taking drug. 

Hercules, when from his flesh he found 

He had not strength to tear th' envenomed robe, 

Calmly built his OAvn funereal pile. 

And, as became a hero, waited death. 



126 



MADALINE. 



CANTO VIII. 

As Madaline is yielding to despair, 
Horace, the while, upon the spot renowned, 
Pressed by so many feet of Earth's great men, 
Has passed the drear, dark hour preceding 

day. 
And in the east, a rosy flush of hope 
Heralds the bright morn of some great joy. 
O Horace ! the rosy light Avhich you behold, 
Ifay be the hre from some funereal pile ! 



O Heart ! bow down again before thy God, 
And bless Him still for whatsoe'er he sends. 
The sweetest cup of life is bitter - sweet. 
And if it shall so prove. He knows for thee 
The purely bitter the more wholesome is ; 



MADALINE. 12' 



Humbly submissive, drink the bitter draught. 
He knows our needs, and doeth all things well. 

Of all the myriad hearts that beat in Rome 

Upon the day that Horace chanced to read 

The written name of " Edward Vaughn and wife," 

Were none that beat more painfully than his 

As, at the dining hour, he sat with look 

Intent upon the door through which these two 

Now soon must pass in entering the room. 

The strong man's face is l)lanched to ghastliness. 

The paper rustles in his trembling hand. 

At length the moment comes. There, full in sight. 

Perfect in ease and grace, is Edward Vaughn. 

Strange ! Was he awake and sitting there. 

Or did he dream ? That lady by the side 

Of Edward Vaughn w^as surely not his wife ! 

A handsome lady, elegantly dressed. 

But not the very least like Madaline ! 

Bewildered, he some moments sat, while they, 



128 



3IADALINE. 



On whom his intense, perplexed look was fixed, 
Not seeing him, Avere placed so near that he 
Soon heard a chance allusion to ' ' my wife ; " 
And thus the truth at last dawned on his mind. 
Then, from his surcharged heart, tumultuous. 
Returned the life-blood in a mighty wave. 
Which, for a moment, drowned both sight w 

sense, 
And but confused within his memory 
Will ever be what after this transpired. 
His food, his drink, the very air he breathed, 
His very being's self, seemed but to be 
The single thought that he had leave to go 
To Madaline, in some great sorrow's pain. 
The speeding train how slowdy bore him on ! 
Oh, had he but the wings to fly to her ! 
No need to haste thee, Horace ! She you love 
Will, at your coming, be but deaf to all 
The tender words of love that you may speak, 
And blind to all the tears that you may shed. 



nd 



MADALINE. ^29 



When Madaline, so tired, so tired of life, 
Started in quest of what might soothe to rest, 
Ere scarce she reached the street, she reeled and 

fell. 
It chanced that two were passing at the time, 
Who gently raised her up and carried her 
Back to the little home she had but left. 
And then two ministering angels came, 
Not as we picture them, in white, with wings, 
But in the dress of '' Mercy's Sisters " clad, 
And through the fever which raged many days, 
In which she fought the fiends of that dark night,, 
And shrieked for Horace's and her Mher's help, 
With utmost care and patience tended her. 
(Whoever does his work as in God's sight, 
Will do that work, however lowly, well.) 

When deep, lethargic sleep stole over her — 

The state of rest which to the most is sent 

Ere plunging in to cross death's chillino- stream — = 



The fever having all its fuel burned, 
And left her lying there so still, and white 
As pale and lifeless ashes from the lire — 
Haggard and worn from haste and want of rest. 
Back from his long sojourn in foreign climes, 
Came Horace to his native land and her. 

A gentle ' ' Sister " met him at the door, 
And in deep pity for this strong man's pain 
When briefly she of Madaline's illness told, 
Gave him her place as watcher by the couch. 
With kind consideration she, the while. 
That she might not upon his grief intrude, 
Softly about the room employed herself. 

For long, his sobs suppressed his strong frame 

shook ; 
But when the storminess of grief was past, 
With huml)le heart, he murmured brokenly : 
" I thank Thee, Father, I am come in time 



MADALINE. 131 



To look upon my (liii4ing's face once more. 
If I but come to close her eyes in death, 
Teach me to say Thy will be done, O God ! " 

Horace, look up ! Heaven asks of thee no more. 
See now your loved one's eyes regarding you, 
Filled Avith the light of full mtelligence. 
Now the physician enters carefully. 
And on his patient looks in glad surprise, 
Which Horace sees, and that he may conceal 
His great emotion, quickly leaves the room. 

When he, who by a glance had bid him hope, 
At length with cheerful face the sick-room leaves, 
Horace, with deepest feeling grasps his hand. 
And as that grasp as warmly is returned. 
He hears the words as Heavenly music sweet : 
'' I think with greatest care that she may live." 

Days came and Avent ere Horace saAV her more, 
For Madaline, Avith lingering step and sIoav, 



132 



MADALINE. 



Returned from brink of death again to earth ; 
And long the flame of life so feebly burned 
That but an agitating breath might quench. 



As she grew stronger, there would often come 

Before her vision Horace's suifering face, 

As she had seen it by her when she waked. 

And as she looked about the room and saw 

The evidence of tenderest regard. 

And with delight the pleasing fragrance breathed 

Of flowers, l)eautiful and rare, or ate 

The fruit which each returning day supplied. 

And with her thought from whence all came 

assured, 
A happy light would steal into her eyes 
As she would think : '" This is for love of me." 
And then in memory she lived again 
The olden time before misfortune came ; 
And looking back, she thought she recognized 
In Horace's tender looks a depth beyond 



L. 



MADALINE. 133 



What she had then supposed he felt for her ; 
Then, to herself, she musingly would say : 
"Strange, I could give my heart to Edward 

Vaughn 
While he, the prince of men, was standing by ! 
But then I was a child — a very child." 

Thus had mused Madaline ; and then came doubts. 
It could not be he loved her all this while, 
E'en were it true that he had loved her once. 
And what seemed evidence of love was prompted 

by 

A friendship for the daughter of his friend. 

It could he nothing more, for day by day 

She watched and waited, thinking he might come ; 

But he came not. Had it been love he felt, 

He ne'er had stayed away from her so long. 

And so the transient happiness would die. 

And than before leave her more lone and sad, 

While, with a feeling of shy diffidence. 




Through all her thought she yet no question 

asked. 
Days passed away, and although Madaline 
Had walked with tottering step across the floor, 
There to her weakness came no farther strength, 
And into tired listlessness she sank. 
The man of medicine looked grave and said 
Life seemed to have no hope on which to feed ; 
And, seeking Horace, told him he might come. 
Seeing a friend might now result in good. 



So, after dreary waiting, came at last 

The happy summons to his loved one's side ; 

And when at length he stood before her there, 

His eyes so full of tenderness for her, 

Impulsively her whole heart went to him, 

And, stretching out her arms as infant will 

When it looks up and sees its mother near. 

She was clasped close in Horace's strong embrace. 



MADALINE. 135 



CANTO IX. 

As after toil our rest is doubly sweet ; 

As freedom from pain is, after agony ; 

As brighter and more beautiful the day 

Succeeding to a dark and dreary night, 

So Horace's happiness in Madaline 

Is sweeter for the waiting and the pain. 

His love, so satisfying and profound, 

Compensates for all sorrows of the past ; 

And he, whate'er the future brings, can say : 

'' I own my share of earthly bliss was large." 

And Madaline? Is she, too, satisfied? 

She truly Horace loves, and loves him well ; 

And even at the hearing of his step, 

A flush of joy quick mantles her fair face. 



136 



MADALINE. 



Not wholly liappy, though, is Madaline. 
Once, love like this entirely had sufficed ; 
But now her restless heart cries out for more. 
Looking beyond earth's brief felicity, 
Her poet gaze, directed to the end, 
Is yet not keen enough to pierce the clouds 
Which throw their shadows even on her love ; 
And she, beyond the clouds, sees not the light. 
Madaline, for satisfying peace. 
Must build her loves and hopes upon a rock ; 
But looking: round she can see nou2:ht but sand. 
And thus it was that she, ere scarce had died 
The thrill that Horace's kiss at parting gave. 
Would turn away and sigh. Oh, if she dared 
But talk with him ! but then, would he not think 
She did not love him if she could be sad ? 
But he the sadness saw e'en through her smiles, 
And one day, taking both her hands in his. 
He bent on her a look of deepest love, 
While thus he said : " My darling Madaline, 



MAD^iLINE. 137 

Should not our hearte e'er to each other be 
As open book, without a secret page 'i 
Something troubles you, my Madaline." 

And then, without reserve, she told to him 
HoAV she had lost all faith in church and creed. 
And life and death were but dark mysteries. 
While not one ray of light pierced the Beyond. 
She might be wholly happy in his love. 
Could she but close and lock the door of thought ; 
But she could not. and through that open door 
She saw the path of life— how short it was — 
Yet, helpless creatures fainted by the way ; 
And if to good or ill this path might lead. 
She could not see, for at the end her view 
Obstructed was by darkness and thick gloom. 

Horace looked down tenderly on her 
And drew her closer to him as he said : 
"My dearest Madaline, try as we may, 



138 



MADALINE. 



No eyes but those of Faith can pierce the gloom." 
And she replied : ' ' But one may wish, yet find it is 
Impossible in aught to have belief. 
To have a perfect faith, methinks one must 
Have but a narrow mind. Do not we all 
Now laugh at even what the men, called greats 
In by-gone ages, have believed ? Dante was great 
In depth, and yet, between contracted banks. 
The deep, strong current of his genius ran. 
He, without doubt, most thoroughly believed 
The center of our system was the Earth, 
And on this basis placed his Heaven and Hell, 
And thought he wrote both poetry and truth. 
Thus all philosophers, in ages past, 
Building upon the science of the times 
In which they lived, thought they had reached the 

truth. 
Those coming after, proving Earth is round, 
The stars are worlds, and our Avorld, too, a star 
Revolving fast in space, thus also proved 



MADALINE. 139 



Those structures of philosophy were false, 
And that without foundations, they were naught 
But unsubstantial 'castles in the air.' 
And can we think our light so great, that those 
Who may live here a century hence will not 
Prove, too, our theories ridiculous 1 

' ' And what belief is there, I might accept, 
Would end the strife between my head and heart ? 
My heart cries out for sweet, confiding faith 
In something high, yet personal and near. 
I 'm chilled by Positive Philosophy. 
Its coldness truly numbs my very life, 
While still my reason cries : ' Can you not see 
The road is straight and firm these great men 

tread — 
These honest, earnest men, as well as great ? ' 
And it presumptuous seems, for such as I, 
To doubt conclusions of such lofty minds — 
Men who, with greatest patience and broad sight. 



140 



MADALINE. 



Have spent their years in search of simple 

truth. 
Yet, all to me so cold and dreary seems, 
I sooner far had lived in olden times. 
When field and grove and air were all alive 
With hio-her beins^s, not too far removed 
To be in sympathy with human life. 

"And then, what say to those Philosophers 
Who tell us that there is no Heaven or Hell, 
Nor Immortality, nor even God ; 
And tell us that our soul is but our life, 
And life is only matter, after all ? 



"And Horace, What is there left for those 
Who still believe that there is soul and God ? 
For learned men have thrown our old beliefs 
Down to the earth, and so bedraggled them. 
Who cares for cleanness ne'er can wear them 
more. 



3IADALINE. 



141 



" And if, O Horace ! if there is a God, 
Does He stoop low enough to note the pain 
His creatures suffer, and yet give no help? " 
And Madaline sighed as thus she ceased to speak. 

Then Horace, with his eyes full of the light 

Which shone serene on him above the clouds 

Which cast their gloomy shade on Madaline, 

Thus answered her : '' My darling, it is true 

That we may never have a perfect faith 

In theories of men ; but, neVrtheless, 

May have a perfect trust that He who made 

The Universe will never do us wrong. 

Dear Madaline, e'en if we thought it true 

Our souls must wander through the beasts and 

birds. 
Or even thought we should be swallowed up 
In the Universal Intellect at last — 
As India believed — therefore complain ? 
Shall we grow so audacious as to think 



142 



MADALINE. 



Our erring judgment better than oar God's ? 

If we believe in God at all, we must, 

Know ing Him to be great, believe Him good, 

And better than can we, decide our fate. 

The very keystone of Keligion's arch 

Is simple faith 'He doeth all things well' 



''And, if men err in letter of their creeds. 
We must not cast away the truth still there. 
Though, true, wx must look higher than a church. 
And modern churches oft have made mistake 
When trying to point out the way to Truth, 
By singling out the footprints of some man. 
If Calvin's, or another's, chance to be, 
And bidding others step in those same tracks. 
Which make too long a stride for some to take, 
For others, may be short or indirect ; 
To any, awkward walking is, at least. 
None ever should attempt to others guide 
Until he first ascend some eminence 



MADALINE. 143 



Where he can see how broad the way to Heaven 
How many footprints point that self-same way ; 
Then, rather, turn men's faces toward it 
By teaching them to lead true, noble lives, 
And they will surely reach it for themselves, 
Whether they choose to walk in somber shade, 
Or walk, instead, in higher, sunlit paths. 

" And it is well for us to bear in mind 

Truth may change form as oft as Proteus, 

And w^e, like Hercules, must hold it fast 

Till it assume the shape we recognize. 

The various religions of the world 

Have really been the truth in various guise, 

Although we find it still wdth error mixed. 

And it were better far for man, indeed. 

To make the earth intelligent with life 

Of genii, nymphs and fairies, than to make 

All but the evolution of blind force. 

We say the Olympian gods were faulty Greeks ; 



144 



MABALINE. 



Yet, those who worshiped truly as they knew, 

Were certainly ennobled by the act. 

And one especial taith, than other faiths, 

Is not more saving. Surely, the good are good, 

For all the difference in belief. I think 

It so it be true gold, God will not ask 

In what especial manner purified ; 

And of less consequence what we believe, 

Than how, upon sincere belief, we act. 

Still, that form of religion should each choose. 

Which gives his moral nature wholesome food 

By which to daily grow in strength and size ; 

Rememberino: vet, what is o^ood food for him 

May but rank poison to another l^e ; 

And not find fault with what another eats 

If so upon it that one well doth thrive. 



" You, my sweet Madaline, are a flower 

That needs the sunshine, and that cold will kill ; 

And if as claimed, the air be fresh and pure 



MADALINE. IttS 



On high plateaus of Comte's Philosophy, 

It yet is cold and chill ; too so, my dear. 

For tender poet hearts, like yours, to bloom. 

Stay in the valley, dearest, where soft clime 

Shall ripen all your nature's sweetest fruits. 

Those in the valley, too, may often see 

Farther than those^ upon the mountain may. 

If so they have not climbed above the clouds. 

And those Philosophers, dear Madaline, 

Who have, by constant and laborious thought, 

'T is true, climbed far the mountain side, and 

thus 
Can take a truer view of that beneath 
Than those enveloped in the cloud and dust 
Of prejudice and creed may ever do, 
Yet, from their lofty height, they but look 

down. 
Scorning to use Imagination's glass, 
Rejecting all, except *the so-called real, 
They little see with dull, unaided eyes. 



M6 



MADALINE. 



" When all is said, my dearest Madaline, 

What more has Modern Science done, than show 

The Infinite is greater than we thought — 

To finite minds, incomprehensible ? 

Try as he may, weak man can never sound 

Infinite depths with finite sounding - lines ; 

And those Philosophers who think that they, 

While on the earth, will e'er be capable 

To comprehend the ways of the All - Wise, 

Are much too rash in their self- confidence. 

The little flies, imprisoned in a room. 

May fly up to the ceiling, where they say : 

' Now we have reached the highest point of all ! ' 

And then we laugh at them, w^e bigger flies 

Who can see all the boundless out-of-door ; 

And so may the Supreme, or angels, laugh 

At all the rash self-confidence of those 

Who think they Ve reached the limits of the Truth. 

Madaline, these great and wise Philosophers 

Remind me of the little Concord boy ^ 



M^iDALINE. 147 



Whom one saw digging in the earth, and asked, 

What was he doing there 'i who quick replied : 

'Oh, sir, I'm searching for tlie Infinite.' 

'T is true the man, than chiki, much taller is ; 

Thus, many inches nearer to the moon. 

The moon to each, howe'er, is yet far ofi ; 

And so I think, the distance is so great. 

The little child by digging in the earth 

Will reach the Infinite as soon as they. 

But yet. Infinity can work both ways. 

And, just so sure as God is great and far, 

May also be enthroned in soul of man. 

And can hear, too, the humblest whispered prayer. 

Ah ! great and wise men ! This is where they err. 

They have strong sight, but only look one way ; 

Thus, are false teachers to their fellow-men 

Who strain their eyes the way these sages point, 

And, blinded by immensity and light. 

Leave all their work undone, or do it ill. 

They know full well that there is work to do — 



148 



MABALINE. 



And is not that enough ? But they must try 
Boldly to see the very Master's self ! 
For those with eyesight strong enough to look 
Straight toward the Central Truth, like those rare 

men, 
True poets and philosophers, 't is well ; 
But they are very few who will not grow 
Confused and reel, perhaps may even fall. 
And so far lose their reason as to say. 
Because they can not see, ' There is no God ! ' 
Know, poor misguided ones, while on the earth 
These o^reatest who look farthest ne'er Avill see 
More than the light which penetrates the veil 
That hides the face of the Unknowable. 



"Then let weak man, instead, but contemplate 
The image of his God, which he may see 
Reflected in the lives of all good men 
Until he so in love with virtue grow. 
He, too, may practice it ; that so, perchance. 



MADALINE. 149 



At close of life, he may be strong enough 
To bear to 'see God's very self and live. 

" Let him, instead of standing but to gaze, — 
With eyes uplifted, true, yet standing low — 
Stoop to the humble work about his feet. 
Lowly deeds of love are lowly rounds 
Of that great ladder reaching to the skies. 
The ladder-rounds may be so much alike 
There may be dreary sameness in them, true, 
And while intent the where to place our feet, 
We may not realize we climb at all 
Until we feel ourselves grow blithe and strong, 
Breathing the purer air which we have reached. 
Ask those who spend their lives in loving acts. 
If they have not, by self-forgetting work. 
Climbed to an atmosphere so pure they feel 
Almost as light and joyous as the birds ; 
As one has felt when he has breathed the air 
Upon the mountains, when he neared the top; 



150 



MADALINE. 



Thus, slowly climbing higher, day by day, 
At length, when all our work is done, we hear 
A voice, which says : ' Look up ! Behold your 
God ! ' 



"I truly think it strange, so many men. 
Because they fancy Modern Science and 
Philosophy, have proved their faiths but false. 
Do, on account of that,< lead careless lives. 
They say, that if there is a God and Heaven^ 
God must be good, and so He surely will 
Let them, with others, share in Heaven's 

lights. 
Poor, foolish men ! they do not stop to think, 
Things that are dead, to naught are sensible ! 
And they must not expect to pleasure feel. 
With moral natures lifeless as a stone 
Through life-long, selfish sinning. Would 

know 
The depths of happiness which he may reach, 



de- 



any 



MADALINE. 151 



Let him with pains, and care, keep well alive 
His tender sensibilities of soul ; 
And neither let them die, become diseased, 
Nor, yet, by their improper use, be dulled. 

"And do you ask: 'What shall we say to 

those 
Who tell us that there is no Heaven, or Hell, 
Nor Immortality, nor even God ? ' 
We '11 simply say to them, my Madaline, 
Science is a goodly animal, 
If so we keep him tame ; but if, perchance, 
It shall run mad, w^e will not calmly stand, 
And let it eat up both our souls and God ! 
We long will fight, ere it shall take our souls ! 
Without them, what are we, but corpses dead 
Drifting on life's sea, or here, or there ; 
No aim, no hope, because, in truth, no life. 
Our poor, white ftices turned up to the sky, 
In stony stare, with which we can see nought. 



152 



MADALINE. 



''And, darling, is it hard to understand, 
How God can see our suff 'ring, and not help ? 
She, doubtless, of the shining face of Truth, 
Had caught a glimpse, who wrote these lovely 

words : 
'Suffering may be but joy, misunderstood.' 
At least, I feel assured, dear Madaline, 
Who takes pain for the ])est, thus makes it so, — 
And verifies : ' Whatever is, is risrht.' 
No evil is we may not turn to good. 
And with ourselves it lies, whether, so prove, 
Our ills become our servants, or we theirs. 



"And now, dear Madaline, of all that I 

Have tried to show, this is the summary : 

Wiser, by far, and happier, are those 

Who learn to trust their instincts. Heaven-born ; 

And all, a safer guide, or soon, or late. 

Will find the intuitions of the soul, 

Than all the loftiest reasonino^ of the mind. 



MABALINE. I53 



Intuition, is a bird that flies 

Straight to the point, and more unerringly. 

Than dull, slow-footed Reason, e'er can do. 

The latter may, in time, arrive at truth. 

Or, it may lose itself entirely. 

In labyrinthine paths of sophistry." 

Raising her eyes, in which a new-born hope 
Contended with regret, said Madaline : 
"O, Horace ! how have I w^andered in the dark ! 
Had you but been beside me all these years, 
You might have kept me by you in the light, — 
And I, the light to others might have shown. 
I longed, and tried, to comfort the distressed. 
But all that I could do was but to weep." 
And then her face grew radiant as she said : 
" But still, I will not grieve, for you have taught 
My errors, and my darksome wandering, 
I may yet make my own. and others', good. 



MAD^iLINB. 155 



CANTO X. * 

A June morn, beautiful and softly bright, 

Is Madaline's and Horace's marriage morn. 

The heaven has donned its dress of brightest blue. 

And lovely cirrus clouds of snowy white, 

Wrought in fantastic patterns, here and there 

Soften, but do not hide, the hue beneath ; 

As 't were a queen who had arrayed herself 

In richest azure robe, and over it 

Had draped exquisite lace of rare device. 

But fairer than the day is MadaHne. 

Never has she been so beautiful 

In winning grace of youth and health. The while, 

Like halo 'round the moon when rain is near, 

Past sorrow has around her beauty left 



156 MADALINE. 



A tender, chastened radiance of its own. 
The brooding shadows from her eyes are gone, 
And, as they had, from Horace's, sunshine caught, 
There shines in them the light of love and 

hope, 
As she, by Horace's side, her hand in his. 
Listens with sweet and trustful confidence 
To his strong, tender words, to cherish her 
ThrouHi o'ood, throusrh ill, till Death should come 

to part. 

And wdien the ring upon her hand was placed. 

And Horace on his young wife's lips had pressed 

The customary kiss, took her away 

To visit — as she had expressed desire — 

First time since leaving it, her childhood's home. 

No wedding tour could her the pleasure give, 

Equal to that she might receive from but 

One day of w^andering with him, among 

The lovely spots she haunted as a child. 



MADALINE. 157 



But when was there, and Horace rang the bell, 
Simply to ask the favor, as she thought, 
To spend a time in walking through the grounds. 
Her aunt, who had her second mother l)een, 
Whom she supposed so many miles away, 
Stepped forward to the door to welcome her ; — 
And then, the joyous greeting at an end, 
She, into Horace's face, with wonder, looked ; 
Who, smiling lovingly upon her, said : 
''Welcome, my darling, to your future home. 
Accept your bridal gift, my Madaline." 

When passed the shock of her surprise and joy, 
Horace led her through the well-known house, 
Showed her the rooms of Lola and Estelle, 
Who would come on the morrow from their scliool. 
Where they had been since Horace placed them 

there 
Durmg the time that Madaline was ill. 
And then they spent the hours in wandering 



158 



MADALINE. 



riirongli lovely dells and shady woodland paths, 
More joyous than the birds which sang for them. 
And as the day was drawing to a close, 
And all the shadows on the grass grew long, 
Horace led her to a rustic bower. 
Where, years before, she had so often sat. 
As hushed and peaceful as were theii- own hearts. 
The lake lay stretched before them, lighted up 
With tender, iridescent hues, and dotted o'er 
W^ith snoAvy sails bright with the sun's last rays, 
While all the western heaven was glorious 
With royal colors borrowed from the sun. 
The lovely grounds, the lake, the glowing west- 
It surely were sufficient loveliness 
E'en to inspire an unpoetic soul. 
They, for some time, in happy silence sat, 
And then, ''O Horace !" exclaimed Madaline, 
'' I would that I now had a poet's power, 
That I might paint this loveliness in words, 
That others with me might the beauty share ! " 



MADALINE. 159 



And then, half pensively, she said to him : 

" Horace, I often used to think it hard 

To have a poet's sensibilities. 

To fancy and aspire, and yet be dumb. 

Often, oh, so often, have I ached 

With tender fancy, or with fiery thought. 

And felt that I must write, if but to cool 

The fever that consumed ; and so in haste 

Would set to work to find, alas ! my thoughts, 

Like molten metal from the furnace drawn, 

When written down, had grown but stiff and cold ! 

And Horace, with the poem in his mind, 
Whose sad intensity, had pierced his soul. 
Replied : " Dear Madaline do not say cold ! 
They were not like to molten metal, rrue. 
Whose very heat makes it with brightness glow. 
You will forgive me, dearest, when I say. 
Who read your poems, rather felt that they, 
In an abyss of boiling blackness, looked." 



160 MADALINE. 



She, then, into his face half sadly smiled : 
"I must have written truer than I knew, 
For at the time I wrote, my mind was like 
Earth's seething chaos ere the light was born. 
A poet's office is to soothe and charm ; 
So, of his lyre, must gently touch the strings, 
That all his music may be soft and sweet. 
I did, by my abruptness, startle all. 
Forgetting, I but loudly clashed the strings ; 
For I had suffered much, and had grown harsh ; 
And so my music also, when I played, 
AVas but harsh, too, and, if inspired at all, 
Kather by Mars than hj the god of love. 

A poet true, with fancies delicate. 

Should wrap an airy veil 'round nothingness, 

So all admire its graceful loveliness. 

His music must be low and sweet. He should 

So gently touch the strings, the strains will be 

As far and soft as sound of falling snow,^ 



MADALINE. 1^1 



Or whisperings of leaves when they reply 
To tender, wooing breezes of the night. 
And he must paint his pictures with a brush 
Dipped in the liquid moonbeams ; or the famt, 
Sweet tints of Summer^s clouds at set of sun. 

''My writing, at the best, is but a string 

Of common beads, with here and there a pearl ; 

Although the pearls were real, who'd wear the 

string ? 
I'll be your poet, Horace, not the world's." 
And, looking up at him, she sweetly smiled, 
'' A loving critic I may hope to please ; 
It would be pain, however just, to see 
Others tear in pieces what 1 weave, 
Declaring it ill- woven, and worse spun. 
And then untwist the threads, and burn a bit. 
To prove it only common cotton, too ; 
But, Horace, I have often sighed to think, 
Many with divine material. 



162 MADALINE. 



Which might a fabric make of priceless worth, 
To be as precious heirloom handed down 
Through coming generations, will, through want, 
Oft spoil their work by haste, and all for 

naught, 
Except the paltry shillings it may luring. 
Ghibertti, on his gate, toiled fifty years ; 
And on one poem, -Gray saw twenty die. 
Ere smoothed, and rounded, to its perfect shape. 
What modern worker thinks one year not long ? 
But gems of thought, 'tis true, will scarce buy 

bread ; 
Few can afford the time to polish them ; 
And though one spend his time in search of 

pearls. 
Diving far down into his nature's depths. 
For what the world may wear, and not himself. 
That world, meanwhile, stands by and lets him 

starve. 
'Tis sad that poets should have common needs ! " 



MADALINE. 163 



And Horace, with his tender smile, replied : 

''Ah ! Madaline, yovi have a poet soul ; 

And you might write true poem, if you would. 

And in the school of grief, where you have been. 

The best born poets often gain their wings. 

As winged Pegasus sprang from Gorgon's blood, 

A thing so dread, beholding turned to stone. 

So, from the blood of sorrow, oft will spring 

Divinest thoughts and fancies. Yet, Madaline, 

'Tis very sad to be a poet, dear, 

For all true thought is born in agony ; 

And child of Genius, whatsoe'er he be, 

A poet, painter, actor,— what you will,— 

Like pelican, tears open its own breast. 

And feeds its offspring with its own life-blood." 

The sun's last crimson rays had disappeared. 
While Horace and his young wife thus conversed. 
And as they watched the daylight fade to dusk, 
He drew her closer with his circling arm, 



164 



MADALINE. 



And looking in her eyes' deep tenderness, 
He whispered : ' ' Darling, have you so forgot 
Past sorrows, you are truly happy now ? " 
And as Jier eyes' soft light beamed into his, 
She answered, in a low, sweet, thrilling voice : 
"So happy, Horace, I could almost weep." 



One brief look more at Horace, and we leave 
Him and Madaline to live their lives, 
In unrecorded, happy usefulness. 
Two years have passed since their bright wedding- 
day. 
And in the halls of Congress, side by side 
With Edward Vaughn, sits Horace Hamilton. 
Thus, even in these days of Policy, 
Sometimes is real merit recognized. 
And Virtue, at the last, receives reward. 
Reward ! ' ' Virtue is its o\m% reward " ! 
How childishly we talk, as if, indeed, 
A little outward honor were so sfreat ! 



MADALINE. 165 



And is it not enough, that when we use 

Our moral faculties, the exercise 

Doth quicken all the life-blood of our souls, , 

Till all its members thrill with new-born strength ?' 

O, young man of to-day, beware ! beware ! 

Let not your moral nature become dead, 

Paralyzed, and dead, from want of use ! 

Keep well from harm your Conscience, that you 

ne'er 
May o'er its corpse, too late, weep your remorse ! 



